


Fire And Potions

by MissDelight



Series: Therion [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abduction, Action/Adventure, Assassins, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Complete, Dovahzuul, Dragons, Epic, Falling In Love, Hand Jobs, Humor, Light Bondage, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Magic, Psijic Order, Romance, Sex, Snark, Spies & Secret Agents, Thalmor, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 66,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDelight/pseuds/MissDelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Therion finds the Court Wizard of Whiterun ensnared by the effects of a powerful potion. The Altmer Dragonborn spends the evening with the grumpy, sarcastic mage, helping him, while taking every opportunity to tease him and enjoy the predicament. Events escalate into grand adventure  as Therion's past catches up with him. Male/Male romance. M!DB/Farengar. Cicero, Ondolemar, and many more cameos. MATURE: Sex</p><p>---------</p><p>“Ah, yes.  And remind me again how many organizations and plots you are the very center of?” Radac asked knowingly.<br/>“That's different.  Being the center of plots is my hobby.  Like painting.  Or learning the language of a race of flying, fire-breathing lizards brought back from the dead by the harbinger of the apocalypse.  Of the three, I'm significantly better at one than the others.  And it's not painting.”</p><p>---------</p><p>"My mocking you enjoy, because everyone fears you.  No one else stands up to you.  Well… no one else with my wit, charm, and a full-scale assault on the capital city,” he added.<br/>“Your humility… that’s not something I’ve missed, if you were curious.”<br/>“Please,” Therion said.  “That was me being humble."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Bit of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for [ this prompt](http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/2438.html?thread=4459142) on the SkyrimKinkMeme.

    Therion breathed slowly, calming himself.  His hands trembled with excitement as he turned the page of his book, eagerly devouring the words.  Without looking up, he took a sip of mead from his flagon.  He savored the sweet nectar as it warmed his body, and let the carbonation tingle delightfully on his tongue.  A wistful sigh escaped his lips as he began to feel deeply relaxed.

    The door to the keep slammed shut with such force that Therion could feel his chair vibrate.  Startled, his feet slipped from the table, causing the contents of his flagon to slosh.  He deftly avoided spilling his drink upon his book, covering the cup with a hand.  A soft growl escaped his lips as the irksome sound of angry footfalls made his slender ears twitch.

    Farengar Secret-Fire stormed into his laboratory, throwing his staff against the wall where it usually rested.

    Therion raised a slender eyebrow, curious what could have put the human mage in such a furor.

    Farengar snapped his gaze onto the Dragonborn, noticing him for the first time.  

“ _Get out_ ,” he barked, ripping the book from Therion’s hands and tossing it away before turning to his alchemy station where he began loudly grinding an ingredient with his mortar and pestle.

Therion watched him in a daze.  As the shock wore off, however, his blood began to boil.  Moving with practiced silence and grace, he stood beside the wizard, hand resting on the black handle of his Akaviri Dai-Katana.

“You’re ruining that nirn root,” Therion said quietly, causing the wizard to jump as he became aware of his presence.

“What?  I’m not even…  Ah,” he stopped, realizing he was grinding the ingredient he meant to dilute, and placed it on the alembic to boil.

Therion smirked, eliciting an indignant look from the wizard.

“You have a rudimentary grasp of the alchemical art.  Are you expecting praise for your ‘help’?” Farengar asked, taking a step away from Therion as he continued his work.  “I’ve better things to do than inflating your already oversized ego.”

Therion laughed.

“ _My_ oversized ego?” he replied incredulously.

“Are you deaf or simple?  I told you to get out.  Where did I put those...” Farengar trailed off, turning to search through the contents of his desk.

“Your grand entrance nearly left me deaf,” Therion said, massaging his ear.  “What happened, Farengar?  You’re more ‘pleasant’ than usual tonight, even for you.”

Farengar slammed his desk drawer shut, empty handed.

“The concern of the _great and mighty_ Dragonborn,” he said with unpleasant sarcasm, “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

Therion snatched the book he had been reading from the table.  

“I’ll find somewhere else to read in peace,” he said irritably, tucking the book away.

Farengar waved his hand at the door, waiting for Therion to leave.

The Dragonborn turned to go, and Farengar heaved a sigh of relief behind him.  His body tensed as the elf whirled around on him.

“Oh, and approach me in such a manner again...” Therion said, bearing down on the grumpy court wizard, causing him to retreat several steps, “and I may not be so patient next time.”

That he killed more than just dragons for a living was not common knowledge.  Therion Adamonest, the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, had a most disconcerting air around him when provoked.  He was quick to smile, but just as likely, and as quick, with his blade.

The mage seemed duly frightened as he noticed him shiver.

Farengar looked for escape from his trapped position between the crux of his desk and the armored mer.  The Nord’s breathing quickened and Therion remained to ensure the mage was sufficiently intimidated.

“By the Nine, why won’t you leave already?!” Farengar cursed, looking skyward as he found himself unable to escape.

Therion paused.  This was not the way a frightened man acted.  He made a quick perusal of all the ingredients sitting on his alchemy stand.

“Ah,” Therion said in a low chuckle.  “Who was it?”

“What fool nonsense are you on about?” Farengar asked, tightly folding his arms.

“Who gave you the love potion?  My coin would be on Arcadia, of course,” he said with a wolfish grin.  “Short on wisp wrappings, are you?  I could try to buy some from Arcadia’s Cauldron, but I suspect she might be conveniently out of stock.”

Farengar shivered again and looked away as he forced his arms to remain at his sides.

Therion burst into laughter.

“Get out,” Farengar ordered, head held high, glaring defiantly at him from the shadows of his blue cowl.

“Why not call a guard, court wizard?” Therion chuckled.  “If you think you can restrain yourself around Whiterun’s finest.  As you can barely keep your hands off of me.”

Farengar finally pushed the Dragonborn away, who gracefully stepped away laughing as he did so.

“Is my torment so amusing to you?” Farengar asked, gasping for breath as he spoke.  Therion’s smile widened.  If he was out of breath, then he was not holding up as well as he pretended to be.

“In a word, yes,” Therion replied.  “The most antisocial, introverted man I’ve ever met, driven to find affection mentally, not to mention physically?  It’s a delicious sort of irony.  Ever been under the effect of a love potion before, master wizard?  I suppose not - it doesn’t sound like your field of alchemy.”

“I prefer more _academic_ research - so no, I never tried one for _recreation_.  But I do know how to craft a cure,” Farengar said indignantly.

“Which is very astute of you, except,” Therion snickered, “You may have noticed that certain, ah, desires are becoming more and more distracting?  Your mind is going to give way very soon, and you won’t have a say in anything you do afterwards.”

Farengar gave him an unsettled look.

Therion held up his hands.  “I’m a perfect gentleman.  I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage.  I don’t need potions to bed someone.”

The wizard relaxed a little.

“However,” Therion added, “If you don’t take an antidote soon, you might, ah, not give any choice in the matter.”

Farengar stiffened, looking more wary than ever.

“Oh, don’t look so anxious.  Even if you lived a hundred years, you couldn’t overwhelm _me_ \- the maids of Dragonsreach or the guards, however… oh dear, who would win, if you ran into Irileth, I wonder?”

“ _I’m going to kill Arcadia_ ,” Farengar growled.  “I never knew she was capable of such tasteless humor!”

“Humor?” Therion echoed. “You think she gave you a _love potion_ to laugh at your expense?”

“Why else?” Farengar snarled, searching through his potions for a cure.

“For someone so smart, you’re remarkably dense,” Therion remarked.  Who would have thought such an arrogant man would be so humble about his appeal.

“I suppose you believe that Arcadia possesses some inexplicable interest in my mind or body?” he said dismissively.

“Or your heart, more precisely,” Therion said, leaning back against his desk while the wizard continued rummaging for alchemy supplies.  “Though you make it sound as if the notion is preposterous.”

“Precisely so,” Farengar said, returning to his alembic.

Therion caught his arm and whirled him around, holding him a breadth away.

“What are you doing?!” Farengar demanded, his sea green eyes searching Therion’s face.

“Looking at you,” Therion said simply, using his free hand to tilt the wizard’s face from side to side.

Farengar struggled against the elf’s grip, but his arms were like iron, and he could not drop the potion in his right hand.  He glared daggers at Therion, trying to ignore the sensations the elf stirred in him.  Locking his gaze on the other man’s amber eyes, he tried to ignore the handsome features of the elf’s high cheek bones, gold lips, and intelligent eyes, searching his own for something unknown to him.  Even his hair seemed absurdly handsome, framing his face with elegant, dark, golden curls.  As he struggled against the Dragonborn, he wondered, despite himself, what those lips felt like.  Therion moved closer, as if he might kiss him at any moment.  Farengar’s heart raced in his chest, but he kept his face a mask of irritation and distaste, hoping the Dragonborn could not feel its beats.

“As I thought,” Therion said, his warm breath making Farengar’s head spin.

“What?” Farengar demanded, wishing Therion would either let go or pull him closer and take him.  Truly, he could not tell which he wanted, as his head spun.

Therion leaned close, whispering seductively in the wizard’s ear.  “You’re actually quite handsome, Farengar.”

The wizard could not help shuddering at the softly spoken words.  “You bastard,” he replied.  “Did you not just claim you would _not_ try to take advantage of my situation?  And now you’re trying to entice me?  Why do you mock me?!”

Therion flashed one of his usual grins.

“I said I wouldn’t take advantage of you, I never said I wouldn’t tease you,” the Dragonborn replied, admiring the wizard’s face in his grip.  “Though I was quite serious when I called you handsome.  Curious, why you refuse to believe me.  How might I convince you of the truth, I wonder?” he asked with a dark grin, pulling Farengar’s chin closer.

The wizard’s breath caught in his throat as the mer moved to kiss him.  Therion paused, his slender ears perking up, causing the three, tiny, silver rings in his ear to bounce.

“Damn,” Therion whispered.  “I may kill that woman myself.”

He released Farengar’s face and ushered him into his bed chamber as the door to Dragonsreach opened.

Farengar gave him a questioning look.

“A woman approaches.  I imagine it’s Arcadia.  Perhaps with a silly story that this is all some misunderstanding?  While she subtly twirls her hair and smiles at you?  No matter.  She’ll not get what she wants,” Therion said, closing the door.

“Stay away from me,” Farengar said suddenly, moving away, as a demanding warmth racked his body.  “I fear I may not be wholly capable of constraining myself much longer.”

“Here,” Therion said, pointing to the chair at the wizard’s desk.  “Sit.”

Farengar sat and watched as the Dragonborn opened his pack, removing a length of rope.

“What are you intending on doing?” Farengar asked with distrust.

“I should think that much was obvious.  Or would you rather take your chances, with your body overriding your sensibilities?  I could let Arcadia in and-”

“Very well,” Farengar said with an exasperated sigh, putting his hands behind the chair.  “Place my palms together or I’ll burn my way through the ropes.”

Therion tied the mage’s hands and then encircled his chest.

“You seem suspiciously familiar with how to secure someone in such a manner,” Farengar said, trying to sound indifferent.

“I have a fascinating night job, when I’m not playing hero,” Therion said with a smirk.  “It wouldn’t fit well in the Dragonborn ballads, however, so please don’t inquire further.”

“Farengar?”

They both looked toward the door, hearing Arcadia calling.

“I’ll deal with her,” Therion whispered.

The wizard nodded.

“Before I go… sorry for this,” Therion said softly.

“Sorry for wh-” Farengar began, but was interrupted by a cloth being forced in his mouth.  He yelled something incomprehensible as Therion gagged him.

“I’ve had this _delightful_ potion once myself,” Therion said, his eyes dark and angry at the recalled memory, “And very soon you’ll be shouting as the effects grow worse.  Best to avoid anyone else finding you like this, no?”

Farengar glared at the mer, breathing heavily through his nose.

“You’re welcome,” Therion said with a wink, heading out the door.

“Oh, Dragonborn,” Arcadia said in surprise, looking up from Farengar’s alchemy station.  “What are you doing here?”

“Robbing the good wizard,” Therion replied with a smile.

“You’re what?” Arcadia asked, looking alarmed.

“Only joking,” Therion said, leaning casually against the alchemy station beside her.  “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, I was just looking for Farengar…” she said, glancing at the door to his bed chamber.

“Oh, what business do you have with him?” Therion asked, leaning a little closer, causing Arcadia to flush.  “Are the two of you… involved?” he asked, with a touch of disappointment in his voice.

“D-Dragonborn,” Arcadia stammered, looking up at the tall mer.  “Um, no, not really.  I was, ah, just dropping by to see if he might like an alchemy ingredient I acquired, you see.”

“Oh, really?” Therion said happily.  “May I see?  I dabble in alchemy a bit.”

“Uh, sure, I suppose,” she said uncertainly, things clearly not going as she had expected.  Reaching into her bag she retrieved a shimmering set of wisp wrappings that floated ethereally in her hand.  

“They’re quite lovely,” Therion said, placing his hand on hers as he took them.

Arcadia blushed and swallowed, letting him examine the ingredient.  “I’m glad you like them.”

Therion quickly placed them in his pocket.  “I’ll make sure Farengar gets them, I’m sure he’ll be very grateful for your visit when he gets back.”

“Gets back?” she asked, looking at his pocket, about to demand the ingredient back.

“From the Temple of Kynareth. He seemed quite keen on seeing Danica,” Therion said.

“ _Danica?_ ” Arcadia repeated.  “Not the priestess?!”

“Yes.  Perhaps he’s feeling ill?” Therion said.

“Sorry, I have to go!” Arcadia said, looking pale and dashing from the room.

Therion took the wisp wrappings from his pocket and turned to Farengar’s alchemy station.  “Dabble” had been putting it mildly about to his alchemy skills.

    As he put together the antidote, he recalled the last time he had tasted it and sighed to himself.  People who used potions and devious means to attain another’s heart or body riled him.  He ignored the sick dread that filled him, knowing what the last stage would be like for Farengar. “I still might kill that woman,” he murmured to himself as he worked.  “Though that would be poor manners.  I wouldn't want to rob Farengar of a little vengeance of his own.”

    With the potion complete, he returned to Farengar’s chamber where the wizard struggled futilely to free himself, a small trail of black smoke coming from his palms.  Therion shut the door behind him and removed the wizard’s gag.

    “UNTIE ME!” he bellowed, before Therion quickly muffled him, placing his hand over the wizard’s mouth.

    “Ah yes, _this_ lovely stage of the potion,” Therion said, glad he had tied the mage to the chair when he had the chance.  “Farengar,” he whispered into the wizard’s ear as he struggled and grunted.  “If you shout again, I will gag you and leave you locked in this room.  Do you understand?”

    The wizard stopped.

    “Good,” Therion said, removing his hand.  “Now, you must be thirsty.  I’ve brought you a flagon of my best mead.  Here.”

    Farengar moved his face to the side, stubbornly refusing the cup.

    “Too good for elven mead?” Therion asked, taking a sip of the cup.

    “I don’t want what’s in that cup,” Farengar growled.  “ _Untie me_.”

    Therion suspected he might refuse the antidote at this stage.  He had done the same.  It was a vain hope he would fall for such an obvious ploy.  

 _Well, on to plan B_ , he thought.

    “I know what you want,” he said seductively, moving to lean casually against the desk in front of the wizard.  “And I have no reservations about giving you what we both desire,” he said, allowing the lust to shine in his amber eyes.

    “Then _untie me!_ ” Farengar demanded looking pained and half mad with desire.

    “We both know I can’t do that,” Therion said, slowly undoing the buckles of his black Nightingale armor, under Farengar’s intense gaze. “But, if you do as I say, I can make it worth your while.”  Moving his hands slowly and deliberately, he tossed aside his chest piece and began undoing the buttons of his white shirt, gradually exposing the gold skin of bare chest.

    Farengar looked torn.

    Therion bolted forward suddenly, grabbing his face as he had before.

    “Drink the potion,” he told the wizard, “And I’ll finish what I started, before we were interrupted.”

    Farengar’s eyes looked lost and wild, but stubborn as ever.  “No,” he said through clenched teeth, though he sounded divided.

    “Gods, but you are stubborn!  Even I wasn’t _this_ bad!” Therion said, kicking the desk in frustration, he uttered a curse in the Ayleid tongue of his ancestors.  “Why can’t you be cooperative just once?”

    “Because you’ll leave the moment I’ve consumed that damned concoction!” Farengar shouted, struggling against his bonds.

    “ _That’s_ what this is about!” Therion said, clapping his hands.  “May I live to see a thousand, I won’t understand how you can be so arrogant yet completely insecure!  You’re handsome, the most intelligent and inquisitive human I’ve ever known, and although you’re a _complete bastard_ half the time, I would eagerly drag you into my bed and pleasure you until you forgot your own name!”

    Farengar looked up at him in surprise.

    Therion placed his hands on the wizard’s head and lowered his cowl, looking at him without the ever present secretive shadows shrouding his face.

    “Farengar, you’re going to drink this potion.  And I will still be here after.  But make no mistake, you are drinking this potion,” Therion said, staring intently at him.

    Farengar locked his jaw, glaring back at Therion with dogged determination.

    In a flash, Therion took a swig from his flagon and grabbed the mage by the back of head.  Tilting him back, he pressed his lips against Farengar’s and opened the wizard’s mouth with his tongue.

    Farengar moaned and opened his mouth, unable to resist.  Therion kissed him deeply, the honeyed potion passing the wizard’s lips at his encouragement.

    “Swallow it,” Therion told him, “And I’ll do it again.”

Heat flowed through Farengar’s body and he swallowed the brew, staring longingly at Therion’s exposed golden flesh.

Therion drank from the flagon again and once more trapped the wizard’s lips with his.  This time he released Farengar’s brown hair and gently ran his hand along the wizard’s cheek and neck, eliciting a low moan from the Nord.

Farengar swallowed the potion.

“Mmm, so you can do as you're told then?” Therion said with a mischievous chuckle.  

He took a third swig of the flagon, and eagerly tasted the wizard, holding either side of his face as the wizard eagerly returned his fire, matching the deft and skillful movements of his tongue.  The Dragonborn felt his head spin as he reluctantly pulled away to give him the last dose.

“Wait,” Farengar begged, looking away, his breathing ragged.  “Please, just untie me.  You want me as much as I do you.  Please…” he whispered desperately at the Dragonborn in the small, dark, bed chamber. When he looked back at Therion, his eyes were filled with longing and heartache.  “I would know your love.  Or I’d prefer to know nothing at all.”

His voice pained Therion, as he had known it would. The enchantment drove him to speak as though he might never again feel such love again in his life.  Therion lifted the cup to his lips to take the final sip, but stopped as Farengar looked at him fiercely, and said, "Don't."

“I don’t want the last of that potion,” Farengar said, the raw misery in his voice unexpectedly cutting deep into Therion. "My heart can take no more of this torment."

 _And now I’m certain, I_ will _kill that woman myself,_ Therion thought silently, watching the wizard suffer.   _What to do…_ the wizard might spit the potion out if he forced it, and then the effect would be weakened or undone, depending on the strength of the spell infecting him, which seemed unduly strong.  Therion lowered his head and sighed, tapping the cup in thought.   _What to do, what to do..._

“Farengar,” he asked.  “Do you trust my honor?”

“In what way?” the mage asked still sounding wretchedly forlorn.

“If I make a vow, I am an honorable man who will uphold my oath, am I not?” Therion asked, looking at him in earnest.

“What sort of vow?” Farengar asked.

“I’ll untie you and make passionate love to you, _if_ you drink the last of this potion first,” Therion said, toying with the belt of his black Nightingale armor.

Farengar fought with the idea.  “If I recover my senses, I might not feel as I do now.  I want you _now_.  Please…”

“Those are my terms,” Therion said with finality, moving his hands away from his belt.

“I suppose the residual influence would be in effect for at least an hour," Farengar said, considering.  “If you promise to uphold your end of the bargain immediately, on your honor, then yes,” he agreed, his breath quickening.

“Very well, on my honor,” Therion said.  Taking the last of the potion, he pulled a dagger from his boot and placed it at Farengar’s ropes.  Gently, he gave Farengar the last of the potion, letting the kiss linger long after the wizard swallowed the last of it.

When at last he broke away he gave the wizard a small, sad smile, as he removed his knife and sheathed it.  “I’m sorry, Farengar.”

The devastation and pain in the wizard’s eyes hurt like a dagger in his chest.

“You swore on your honor!” he shouted.

“Yes.  Fortunately, you don’t know me very well.  Or you'd know I have none,” Therion replied with a cheerless smile, quickly gagging the man as he began to yell.

Therion laid in Farengar’s bed, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.  The wizard bowed his head and sat still, all of the fight having gone out of him, his heart broken. Therion wondered if he had ever felt so damned wretched, in all his hundred thirty-four years, as he did at that moment.

Therion rubbed his fingers together, fire sparking and coming to life in his hand.  With a look around the room, he flicked his hand, and a tiny ball of flame spun and split off in five directions, lighting all of the candles in the room.  Farengar watched with a flicker of interest before once again looking away in silence.

“I learned it on the Summerset Isle,” Therion said, speaking toward the unresponsive figure.  “I used to sit in my room, bored to tears.  So I made a game of seeing how many I could successfully light.  My parents became legitimately concerned about the number of candles I kept in my room.  And the singe marks on my walls and blankets.”

Farengar remained still.

“My record, if you’re curious, is twenty-six,” Therion said, a little pride in his voice.

Farengar made no response, but Therion felt the mood lighten ever so slightly, even if it was just on his end.  

“The heartbreak…” he said slowly, hesitant to revisit the past.  “It hurts like hell.  My friends had to drag me out of town and tie me to a tree.  I even broke Talamagne’s arm, poor bastard.  I'd have beaten all five of them to a pulp if it hadn't been for Aran knocking me senseless.  A blessing he didn't leave me simple, too. I still see stars just remembering him cracking my head against Auriel’s statue,” he said, rubbing the back of his head nostalgically.  “After they forced me to take the antidote, my heart ached so awfully within my chest, I wished I could die.  But after an hour, the love, heartbreak, desire…” he waved his hand absently, “All gone.  Just temporary illusions, created by someone who wants to force you to feel as they do.  So they can rob you of your senses... and take what they want of you.”

Farengar looked toward Therion as the mer fell into an uncharacteristic silence.

He watched in fascination as Therion began to absently weave an elegant pattern of fire in the space above him, staring at the ceiling as he did so.

“Love doesn’t take what it wants,” he said solemnly, looping a trail of fire into his intricate design without looking. The glowing artwork bathed the room in warm, red light.  Farengar watched the design grow, until Therion sighed and extinguished it with a gesture, as if waving away the past as well.  

Reaching behind his back, he removed the book there.

“Have you ever read 'A Dance in Fire'?” Therion asked, his usual, playfully aloof demeanor returning, as he cracked open the worn book.  “I’m going to assume you have, and read it to you anyway.  Hopefully it will make the time pass quicker,” he said, clearing his throat, “The scene: the Imperial City, Cyrodil.  The date: seven Frost Fall, third era, three hundred ninety-seven.  It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission, the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly every construction of any note in the Empire…”

Therion read on, bringing different voices to each character and giving them individual personalities, while settling into the role of narrator and pouring his deep, resonating voice into each line.

When he closed the book, he was certain at least two hours had passed.  He cleared his throat, feeling a bit hoarse.  The wizard would be completely cured, and that was worth the extra wait.  Using the dagger from his boot, he removed the gag from Farengar’s mouth and sliced his ropes apart.

The first thing Farengar did was to pull up the cowl of his robe, shrouding his face once more.


	2. Separation

    “Why do you insist on wearing your hood up?” Therion asked with disappointment.  For a man with such carefully groomed side burns, he seemed oddly intent on hiding them from view.

    Farengar stood, brushing off his robes.

    “Get out,” he said, holding his head high.

    “Are you sure?” Therion asked, quirking his brow, “I wouldn’t mind staying-”

    “I would,” Farengar snapped, giving Therion a glimpse of his brewing anger and mortification.

    “Very well,” the Dragonborn said, holding up a hand in peace.  “I was only trying to help, Farengar-”

    “ _Out!_ ” he shouted, wrenching the door open.

“Gods, you are determined to deafen me, aren’t you?” Therion said with an indifferent sigh.  “It’s not my fault you drank the damn love potion.”

Farengar descended upon him, dragging him to the door with strength surprising for a mage.  Therion put up no resistance save for the last moment.  Whirling around to face Farengar, a roguish grin spread wide across his face.

“Was it so awful?” Therion asked, holding onto the door frame. “I, for one, had a delightful evening.”

He savored the scowl on Farengar’s face as he shoved him from the room.  Therion stumbled back, watching the door slam shut.

“Come on!” the mer shouted with a laugh, trying the handle and finding it locked.  “Open the door, Farengar!  I’m not leaving without my armor.  A god gave it to me. And not one of the forgiving ones, either.”

Therion froze, a creeping sensation along the back of his neck.  He snapped his gaze toward the Great Hall. The large room, which had been deserted all day, was now filled with people, all of them looking his direction. His audience included no less than Jarl Balgruuf, his housecarl, Irileth, his steward, Proventus, and a full escort of guards.  As they returned his stare, Therion was suddenly acutely aware that he was standing before them with his shirt completely open and his belt half undone.

Irileth’s eyes were open wider than he had thought possible, while Proventus was staring intently at what looked like a blank parchment, every scrap of his bald scalp flushed bright red.  

The Jarl, for his part, just looked amused.

Therion stood up straight and flashed a smile, rubbing his chin as he tried to think.  He could already hear the guards muttering about a “lovers’ quarrel”.  

 _To hell with it_ , he thought, grabbing what remained of his mead and giving a wink heavenward, silently asking Nocturnal to pardon him for losing his armor.  

“Good evening,” Therion said, touching his brow with a flourish.

The Jarl nodded back.  

The mer strolled away, hands tucked regally behind his back, in contrast to the disarray of his clothing.  He saw little point in adjusting it and looking flustered, so he flaunted it.  The best way to avoid embarrassment was to wear it with pride.

“Dragonborn,” the Jarl said, and Therion stopped in his tracks. “A god you say?”

He looked back over his shoulder at the court of Whiterun.

“A jest,” he said humbly with a courteous nod before leaving the hall.

If word got around that the Gods were handing him trinkets and armor, he would be up to eyes in thieves.  Not to mention Nocturnal, infamous for her love of secrecy, might disfavor him for drawing attention.

He was not a devout follower of Nocturnal, but he knew better than to piss her off.  

Walking through the empty streets of the Cloud District, he paused to run a hand over the tiny tree, Gildergreen.  The sapling was growing stronger each day.  For a moment he pictured it with ruby red leaves, glowing in the autumn sun beneath his bedroom window, somewhere far across the Abecean Sea.  Shaking his head, he removed his hand from the bark and walked slowly back to his small home.

Therion smiled to himself, remembering the last kiss he had shared with the wizard, as he took a sip of his mead.  The alcohol warmed his body against the cold and the taste reminded him of fond memories.  Though he missed the Summerset Isle, there were times when Whiterun could feel like home.  Tonight was such a night.  The twin moons shone brightly in the night sky.  He looked up, admiring the sight as he descended the stairs toward the empty street stalls and closed businesses.

A cloth was clamped roughly over his mouth, muffling his cry of surprise as he was pulled backward, forcing him off balance.  Dropping his mead flask, Therion grabbed at the hand silencing him.  His heart raced, alarmed by his inability to use his Thu’um.  He felt himself being lifted up as a second and third attacker quickly grabbed his legs and torso, carrying him out of sight behind an abandoned house on the hill.

Thrashing with all of his might, he tried to escape their grip, though his strength seemed to fail him.  He managed to throw a fire spell at the closest hooded figure before the man pinned his arms at his side.  In the brief, illuminating light of his fire spell, he saw something which made his blood run cold; Thalmor armor.  His original attacker forced the cloth into his mouth, gagging him, as he wrapped another tightly around his mouth.  The fabric

in his mouth tasted bitter and unpleasant.  Therion’s vision began to blur and his body began to slacken, his muffled cries turning into distant and inarticulate moans as he tried to stay conscious.  A dead or unconscious guard lay beside him, crushing his hopes further of anyone hearing him.  He felt them bind his feet and hands, his arms forced painfully together behind his back.  

Blinking hard, he moved his head side to side, trying to stay awake.  He knew it was a losing battle as his vision began to darken.  With all his might he made a final attempt to call for help, the sound barely audible to himself around his gag.  The last image he saw was the hooded Thalmor putting a finger to his lips before he slipping into unconsciousness.


	3. Missing

Brynjolf looked up at the wooden sign above the tavern door.  Beneath green letters reading “Drunken Huntsman” was the illustration of an overflowing mug.  Pushing the door open, he was immediately greeted by warm air, laden with the smell of roasting stew.  Had he been in search of entertainment, he would have sighed with disappointment.  The sleepy, little tavern was too quiet for his taste.  He had grown up in Riften, where opening a tavern door revealed roars of raucous laughter and yelling, amidst a cacophony of crashing mugs and glasses.  Surveying the room nonchalantly, he looked for exits and coin purses of interest, as was his habit, only to find neither. The red headed Nord shook his head, missing the Bee and Barb.  Just what sort of tavern had a jester in it, anyway?

    Spying his contact, Brynjolf wove through the patrons and toward the hearth, seating himself and leaning forward, as he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.  

    “I came as fast as I could, lass.  What have you found?”

The slight woman beside him let out a soft sigh of disappointment from beneath her dark hood.

    “Very little,” she said, in a delicate murmur.  Karliah’s voice was, as always, like silk to his ears; soft and tender.  “He was here a week ago, according to the guards.  The housecarl confirmed the same.  She’s concerned with his absence as well.”

    “We’re calling off the Black-Briar job for now.  Maven will have to wait until this is settled,” he said, scratching his beard.  “You suppose she found out what was coming and made a move?”

    The door opened and several villagers walked to the counter, greeting the owner.

    “I don’t know,” Karliah said solemnly, looking up at Brynjolf from beneath her hood, concern in her violet eyes.  A war with Maven Black-Briar could cripple or destroy the Thieves’ Guild.  Therion had devised a way to destroy Jarl Black-Briar’s choke hold over Riften, quickly and quietly, and had then vanished into thin air.   

    Laughter at the counter interrupted the heavy silence between the two companions.

    “No!” Elrindir shouted in disbelief, the Bosmer owner behind the counter looking positively shocked.

    “Yes, it’s true!  I heard it from one of the guards who was there!” a villager said to a small crowd of patrons.  

    “I always wondered what he was into…” someone murmured scandalously.

    “Didn’t think he had it in him… seemed like he was more 'interested' in dragons,” another chuckled, thinking himself very witty.

    A bald, pompous looking man sneered as he said, “I, for one, am shocked.  It’s bad enough, fooling with dark, unnatural things like, _ugh_ , magic.  But I never thought he was prone to acts of such _depravity…_ ”

    “Depravity?” the first villager echoed.

    The pompous man shook his head looking disgusted.  “It’s a disgrace!  A member of the Jarl’s court bedding a… a...” he struggled, as if the word was too revolting to say aloud before finally exclaiming, “...an elf!”

    Elrindir looked at the man, rage building in his eyes, as though the Bosmer was warring with the impulse to leap over the counter at him.

    “Well,” one of the younger men said slowly, “High Elves _are_ sort of pretty, you have to admit. And they’re real good with magic, so it kind of makes sense the Jarl’s wizard would have some kind of interest-”

    “It’s unbecoming of a Nord!” the outraged, older man hollered righteously.  “And I do not have to admit anything of the sort!”

    Brynjolf heard Karliah scoff as she muttered something about ‘a backwater hole of a town’.

    Another joined in, “Well, it’s not just any elf though, is it?  It’s the Dragonborn!”

    Brynjolf and Karliah sat up, more interested in the conversation.

    “And it sounds like Farengar rebuffed _him!_  Threw him out a week ago!” the youth went on.

   

* * *

 

    Farengar looked up from his desk, sensing he was not alone.

    Since the incident, he had become more irritable than usual.  He was a private man, preferring to be left alone.  His new status as a celebrity was mortifying. The number of idiotic questions he received daily seemed to have increased a hundredfold.

    “ _What?”_ he snapped sharply, causing his newest, and most bizarre, visitor to gasp in shock.

    “Oh my, Cicero has angered the court wizard!  And poor Cicero was just standing here!” spouted the tall jester dressed in black and red, sounding hurt.  The bells on his costume jingled as he spoke eccentrically, their melody as disharmonious as their wearer’s gaze.  “No, no, no!  No time, none at all!” he growled, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.  “Cicero broke the rules, poor Cicero, he broke them!  He must speak with the Jarl’s wizard, no time, no time!”

    Farengar looked him over.  

    “I think he’s the large brute by the throne, the one wearing a lot of armor.  Go and bother him,” he said, returning to his tome, hoping to pawn the strange man off on the guards.  Which, he considered, needed a lesson on whom to allow into the keep.

    A disconcertingly shrill laugh came from the jester as he danced from foot to foot.  “Ah hah, a jest!  The wizard jests with Cicero!  Oh yes, how thrilling!” he cackled with veritable excitement.  His voice turned unexpectedly low and menacing as he added,  “I do enjoy a good laugh.”

Farengar reconstituted himself against his sudden change in tone.

“And what business would a madman have with a Jarl’s court wizard?” he asked, leaning back while secretly placing a ward in one hand and paralyze in the other.

“Cicero is not mad, he is worried!  A message for the wizard, message message message!  Bring the Listener now, _now_!” he cried urgently.

“Yes…” Farengar said slowly, vowing to discuss the guards’ sense of humor regarding his visitors with Irileth.  “The Temple of Kynareth is what you’re looking for.  Danica is a superb listener,” he said, forcing himself to keep a straight face as he described the impatient priestess.

Cicero began to scream with frustration, then quickly shushed himself, muttering under his breath.  Farengar watched his mercurial mood swings with growing concern.  Perhaps he could tempt him into drinking a sleeping potion, and avoid injuring him in combat.

“ _Therion!_ ” the jester whined, catching Farengar’s undivided attention.  “Loredas, Sundas, Morndas - Cicero waited, waited and worried, pacing beside Mother!  Poor Mother was beside herself, inconsolable!  By Tirdas, Cicero could wait by himself no longer!  The mer always comes on Loredas, to sit and listen to Mother, never late, never!  He brings Cicero tidings, and oh yes!  Sweet rolls… gooey and delicious.  Kind words, he always speaks to Cicero,” he said despairingly, before snapping ferociously, “The wizard must tell Cicero where he has gone!”

Farengar looked at the peculiar man, deciphering what he could from his gibbering.

“I neither know, nor care, where that man is,” he said, tiring of the nonsensical ramblings of the jester.  “As you can see, he is not here, in my laboratory.  Try looking in a rotting crypt.  Or, if he’s not robbing my ancestors, a tavern.”  Farengar had no actual knowledge of how Therion spent his time, but he had a general idea of the habits of adventurers and their ilk.

Cicero glared at him sullenly, grumbling ‘no help at all’ repeatedly.  As he turned to leave, he shot a maniacal look at Farengar.  “If the wizard took away the Listener, if he hurt him…” he cackled gleefully, before his voice fell to a dark whisper, “I will bring him home to meet Mother.”

Farengar watched the lunatic leave with an unsettled, bemused look.  Shaking his head, he reached down into his desk and fished out his strongest bottle of ale.  As he sat up, he was greeted by two new figures standing before his desk.

“Divines, what now?!” he demanded, slapping his hands on his desk as he stood up. The red headed Nord male in adventurer’s garb and the female figure, wearing a familiar set of black armor, both started in surprise.  “No, I don’t want to know!  I’m retiring for the evening.  Away with you!” he said with a curt wave of his hand.

“Here now,” Brynjolf said, his voice warm and easy going. “We only need a moment.  Then we’ll leave you to enjoy your drink and bed.  We’re in search of information, and we can compensate you for your _extremely_ valuable time,” he said, producing a large coin pouch and tossing it onto the wizard’s desk.

Farengar looked at it, a bit surprised.  There were at least 500 septims in the pouch, by the size of it.

“What do you want, then?” he asked impatiently, taking the coin purse, as tomes and rare alchemy ingredients, danced in his mind’s eye.  “Directions to a crypt?  Deciphering an ancient text?”

Karliah shook her head.  “We’re looking for information regarding the location of Therion Adamonest.”

Farengar wrinkled his nose, exhaling sharply.  “How many more people will break into my offices to ask this question tonight?  I have no idea where the population of Skyrim conceived the notion that I know where the Dragonborn hides himself, but I do not know, nor care to know, what that man does in his spare time!  Perhaps he was tragically eaten by a dragon!”

Brynjolf nodded to Karliah, glancing over the table.

“What is that?” Karliah asked, pointing to the armor laying beside his enchanting station.  Therion’s armor.  Which, he noticed, was identical to her own.

“He left it here, last week,” he said with a disinterested sigh.

“And you didn’t think it odd he never retrieved it?” Karliah asked, wondering what Therion saw in this grumpy lover.

Farengar glared at her, reading her tone.

“I never gave him cause to remove it in the first place,” he growled, although it was something of a gray area to the truth.  His only comfort from the whole affair was knowing that Arcadia was sitting in jail, carrying out her month long sentence in misery.  “He left Dragonsreach and that was the last any of us saw of him.”

“A dead end, it would seem,” Brynjolf said to Karliah.

“Not necessarily… How are you with locating spells?” she asked Farengar, picking up Therion’s armor and gently folding it, before placing it on his desk.

Farengar looked at the armor.  “I can use it to track him, but the Jarl would never permit me to-”

“I can pay you five times the amount Byrnjolf just gave you,” she said, producing several brilliant diamonds in her black glove.

Farengar raised his eyebrows, sorely tempted.

“And another 5,000 septims when Therion is safely recovered,” Karliah added, setting the stones atop Therion’s shadowy armor.

Some quick math concluded that his visitors were indeed willing to pay him the price of a house, fully furnished, all to find the Dragonborn.  

“What is your association with the Dragonborn?” Farengar felt himself compelled to ask, reminded of Therion’s remark to ‘not ask’ about his night job.

“He and I are not romantically involved, if that’s-” Karliah began.

“That is NOT what I was inquiring,” Farengar snapped.

“Brothers in arms,” Brynjolf supplied with a casual shrug of his shoulders.  

“I’ll inform the Jarl I’m departing to investigate the location of his missing Thane,” Farengar said.  Adding, as something occurred to him, “5,000 septims when he is safely recovered… and if he’s dead?”

“I will honor our deal.  And you may help yourself to the pockets of those following him closely to the afterlife,” Karliah said with dark promise.


	4. Interrogation

    Therion slowly came around only to find himself surrounded by Justicars.  A nightmare he had often.  As the reality settled in, and he realized he would not be waking up in his bed, he took a closer look at his captors, in their vile Thalmor armor, and became so overwhelmed with terror, that he felt numb.  All he could do was wait; a form of torture all on its own.

    A door to the small room he was in opened and the Justicars made respectful nods, before turning and departing.  Through a drug addled haze, Therion heard the rustle of papers as they were tossed onto a table in front of him, followed by a chair scraping on the stone floor. A man sat down and leaned forward, observing him.  Therion’s pulse quickened as he pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt, bringing it dangerously close to his face.

    With a quick motion, he cut away Therion’s gag and cast a healing spell, clearing the fog from his mind.  “You are a difficult mer to get a hold of,” he said haughtily.

    Therion looked up at Head Justicar Ondolemar.

    “Auriel help me, you scared me half to death, bastard!” Therion said in a rush, heaving a sigh of relief.

    Ondolemar’s eyes smiled, though his face remained neutral, doubtlessly a result of disciplined practice, Therion reflected.

    “You know, cousin, there are much easier ways to speak with me.  Ways which do not take a hundred years or more off of my life,” Therion said, though he suspected he was not a prisoner to the Thalmor on Ondolemar’s behest.

    His cousin’s thin lips lowered in a frown.  

    “The Dominion took notice of your swift resolution to the civil war.  You’re to be questioned in Skyrim, then returned to the Summerset Isle for execution,” Ondolemar explained, relaxing back in his chair.

“Well, that’s a relief.  For a moment, I thought I was in trouble,” Therion said, cracking his neck and adjusting his shoulders as best he could.  He looked at Ondolemar with envy as his uncomfortable shackles chafed his skin.  There was no way around it of course; if someone walked in to find him sitting comfortably, Ondolemar would have a difficult time explaining himself.

“Apparently,” his cousin continued conspiratorially, “The Emperor was recently murdered.  The few surviving witnesses all attest the assassin was dressed in Thalmor robes.  Cyrodil is in an uproar.”

“Imagine that,” Therion replied innocently, with mock curiosity.  “How sloppy of the Thalmor assassin, getting seen like that.”

“Indeed,” Ondolemar said, nodding his head.  “The Dominion can only guess as to the identity of the assailant,” he added meaningfully, to Therion’s relief.  

A thought struck him.

“It was you,” Therion remarked, thinking back to the mer whom had placed his fingers to his lips during his abduction.  “You were there, in Whiterun.”

“I wanted to ensure my agents weren’t… over zealous,” Ondolemar explained, trying to sound indifferent.

“You really do care about me, cousin!  I’m positively misty eyed.  Be a dear and wipe away my tears for me, will you?” Therion teased.

“Oh shut up.  You really are insufferable,” Ondolemar grumbled sourly.

“You love me, admit it,” Therion said with his most imperious smile in an attempt to further irritate his kin.

“You may think otherwise, when you hear what I have to say,” Ondolemar said, suddenly serious.

Therion carefully masked his face and voice to sound unconcerned, so as not to make life more difficult for his beloved cousin.

“You have my permission.  Get on with it,” he said, attempting to sound uninterested.

“I haven’t even told you what I have in mind,” Ondolemar said, irritated at his presumptuousness.

“No, but it’s not hard to guess,” Therion said impatiently, having come to the same conclusion as soon as he had recognized his captor.  “The Empire is in an uproar.  But it’s not _quite_ enough to inspire them to action.  Whereas Skyrim is practically begging for an excuse to go to war with the Summerset Isle…” he trailed off.  “The Dragonborn, hero and brave savior of men, the scourge of Alduin, the bane of kings… found tortured half to death by their evil, elven oppressors… well, it almost writes itself, doesn’t it?  How many songs do you think they’ll write?”

Ondolemar’s impassive face, began to look strained.  “You _could_ always overpower me and escape using your Dragonborn powers,” he said, knowing neither of them was in favor of the option.

“That would make for a lousy song.  I do that to Thalmor on a weekly basis, and no one’s written so much as a ditty,” Therion said, maintaining his casual attitude for Ondolemar’s sake.  “I know it’s been hard for you, and I know it was I who asked you to join the Thalmor.  Out of every member of the _Laloria Malatar_ , you are by far the most suited for subterfuge.  Now,” he said encouragingly.  “You’re almost done.  I’ll be the last one you ever have to interrogate.  Which, all things considered, is poetic justice,” he said guiltily.  “As a result, we’ll bring war to the Summerset Isle, conquer our people, and have every last Thalmor tried and executed.  The Altmer will be free from the vile rot we allowed to seep into our homeland.”

“And if it’s all for nothing?” Ondolemar pointed out.  “If nothing goes as you’ve intended?”

Therion fixed him with his powerful gaze.

“Then history will remember us as butchers.  Our nobility, our achievements, our entire existence, will be cursed and spat upon by all the races of man and the younger races of mer.  And one day a reckoning will come,” he said darkly.  “We brought this upon ourselves by allowing the Thalmor to exist at all.  And now we have to take responsibility for that mistake and restore the nobility of our race.”

Ondolemar pulled a potion from his robes.

“You’ve always had a flare for the dramatic,” he said dispassionately.  “I can’t guarantee you’ll survive, if something goes wrong with this haphazard plan.”

“I’m well aware,” Therion said.

“And how will we make sure the Nord people find you?” Ondolemar asked.

Therion laughed.

“If someone doesn’t show up from either the Thieves’ Guild, the Dark Brotherhood, the mage’s college, the Blades, the Imperial forces, or any other number of organizations or groups, then I have done a decidedly poor job of infiltrating this country,”  he said with a small chuckle.  “Stall if you have to, but someone will come, eventually.”

“Alright then,” Ondolemar agreed, though he remained still in his chair.

“The sooner begun, the sooner done, a Nord once told me,” Therion said, thinking fondly on his favorite resident of Skyrim.

“Are you in such a hurry?” Ondolemar asked, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

“Just once more.  One last time.  You’ve done this many times, Ondolemar-”

“But never to _you!_ Never to my little cousin!” he said savagely, his hand still covering his eyes.  “I taught you to shape fire, when you were small.   _I_ convinced you to join the _Laloria Malatar_.  You’d still be home, safe and comfortable, if I had never convinced you to become a spy.”

Therion bowed his head.

“You don’t have to be the one to do this,” he told the anguished mer.  “You can order your subordinates-”

“ _No._ ”  Ondolemar said with an air of finality.  He opened the potion in his hand.  “Drink this.  Scream for as long as you can.  As soon as you lose consciousness, I’ll go to work.”

Therion nodded his head.  “Promise me something though, will you?” he asked.

Ondolemar looked at Therion, awaiting his request.

“Be careful with my face, it’s my best feature,” he said, laughing despite himself.

“Your vanity knows no bounds,” Ondolemar sighed, giving him a cynical look.

“Seriously, though,” Therion continued, “When I am rescued, run.  I need to know you’ll be safe.  The company I keep can, at times, make the Thalmor look like Mara with an armful of kittens.”

“I will,” Ondolemar said with a nod.  “And someday, you will tell me more of your adventures here," he added imploringly.

“Look forward to it,” Therion promised.

Drinking the potion, he took a deep breath and screamed as if a dragon were ripping him to pieces.

He glanced at Ondolemar who gave him a hint of a smile and silently applauded his performance between gloved hands.

He screamed himself hoarse until he began to tire from the potion, but continued to groan for as long as he could, so Ondolemar would be sure when he was finally unconscious.

 


	5. Reunion

 Farengar looked at Brynjolf and Karliah with incredulity.

“We don’t have time for this,” Karliah said irritably, trying to usher the wizard into the dilapidated keep.  “Therion could be _anywhere_ inside!”

“And there could be _anything_ waiting within those walls,” Farengar said, refusing to budge.  “I for one, have no desire to be caught unaware by whatever, or whomever, can subdue the Dragonborn.”

Karliah started to argue with him when Brynjolf motioned them both to be silent, before beckoning them over.  They moved to his side and observed two Thalmor Justicars exiting the main door. The two men dragged a bound, struggling Nord between them who began to cry out, begging for Talos’ intervention.

One of the justicars stopped, outraged by his blasphemous cries, and he backhanded the prisoner, spitting on him and shouting insults.

“Nord beast!” he said, kicking the man.

A fireball engulfed the elf wholly, causing the charred carcass to fall to the ground, smoldering.  Karliah looked up at Farengar in surprise, watching him advance without hesitation toward the other Justicar, the fire spell still burning brightly in his hands, reflecting the look of unbridled rage in his eyes.  

The second justicar drew his sword and readied to charge, but before he could act, he fell to his knees, clutching an arrow protruding through his neck.  Farengar turned as the elf collapsed dead on the ground and found Brynjolf joining him, bow still in hand.  The two men shared a mutual look, and an instant bond formed between them.

The Thalmor’s prisoner sobbed gratefully as Karliah freed his hands with a knife.

“Please!” he implored loudly, looking between the three of them, “The others… save the others!”

Karliah nodded, trying to quiet the shouting man without success.

“Well, so much for the subtle-” she stopped, noticing Farengar and Brynjolf had already entered the keep, leaving her behind.  “Nords are such an impatient lot,” she said with a terse sigh, following the two men while gracefully drawing a sword in either hand.

Stealthily, an eager figure followed after her, quite literally with bells on.

Inside, the two Nightingales and wizard moved swiftly, disposing of three more justicars guarding a prison cell.  Brynjolf flicked his wrist, producing a pick from his sleeve, while pulling a dagger from his bandolier.  The prisoners, twelve in total, watched him with bated breath as he picked the lock and swung open the metal door, its hinges letting out a loud groan.  He stepped aside as Farengar swept past him and began healing the tortured and frightened prisoners.  

Though he would have preferred using his much superior proficiency in destruction magic immediately on the rest of the Thalmor in the keep, Farengar could not ignore the helpless Nords looking up at him, and put his limited healing talents to work.  

Brynjolf took a moment to locate the keys on a dead justicar and tossed them to Farengar before going on ahead with Karliah at his side, as they continued to exterminate the justicars within the keep.

Grabbing the key ring, the wizard tried various keys until the the shackles on the first prisoner opened with a click.  The Nord, an old man with gray hair, took the key ring from Farengar and went to work freeing the other prisoners, allowing the wizard to return his attentions to tending the wounded.

Small beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he toiled, commanding the golden, healing light.

A soft set of footsteps caught his attention.  Suspecting it was Karliah, he turned, only to find a bitter looking blonde woman staring back at him.  He recognized his associate, Delphine, from his past dealings with her related to the Dragonstone.

“Farengar!  Have you seen the Dragonborn?!” she demanded, looking around wildly with her sword in hand.

"No!" he exclaimed, frustrated and annoyed by the question, as he turned his back to her and began healing a sick child.

He heard her leave, but no sooner was she gone, than a small voice spoke directly in his ear.

“Good evening,” said a little girl innocently, though Farengar found her tone off-putting.  How had she snuck up beside him?  “I’m looking for my friend, Therion.  Have you seen him?”

Farengar glared at her with mingled irritation and distrust.  “No,” he said, glancing furtively at her as he continued draining his Magicka and letting it replenish.  When he glanced back toward the eerie child again, she had vanished.  He idly wondered how so many visitors had come to the same location, and decided he was too tired to care and had more important concerns.

Farengar sighed, draining a blue magicka potion.  He felt his woefully inadequate restoration abilities improving as he repeatedly worked himself to the point of exhaustion.

The clambering of many feet made him turn, and he readied a volley of fire spells in case they were justicar reinforcements.  He watched a small unit of Imperial soldiers round the corner, their troubled faces taking in the scene with distress.

Their leader, an important looking Imperial, locked eyes with Farengar.  “Have you seen-”

“I DO NOT KNOW WHERE THE DRAGONBORN IS!” he roared even before the startled man could finish his sentence.  

The soldiers hurried away, eyeing the fallen Thalmor, and although they were technically their allies, chose to say nothing.

Farengar glared after them.  His kinsman were being tortured and left to die in filthy cells, and all of Skyrim was fixated with finding one damn elf.  As if it were the only thing in the world that mattered.  If one more person asked him that question...

Farengar had just consumed another magicka potion and gone to work healing a frail, elderly, woman when he heard another person approaching with the sound of heavy footsteps running, punctuated by jingling bells echoing throughout the room.  He looked up at the madman he had met at Dragonsreach, the jester Cicero, with disdain.  He was in no mood for more of the man’s incoherent babbling.  

To his surprise, Cicero did not utter a single word.  Instead, Farengar found himself yelling protests as the jester grabbed him by the arm and forcefully dragged him from the cell.  Cicero mutely twisted an arm behind his back, forcing him to move at a run down the hall.

Farengar snarled questions and threats at the man, though he was too exhausted from healing to resist as he was thrust into a surprisingly crowded room.  Cicero used Farengar to knock people out of his way, including the two Nightingales, forcing them both to the center of the half circle, where he tossed him unceremoniously to the ground.

A bloody figure with gold skin lay sprawled on the floor.   Recognition dawned as Farengar spied three, small, silver rings in one long, elven ear.  He stared at the High Elf, momentarily taken back.  The Dragonborn looked like a stranger, his face deathly pale and empty of its familiar mirth.  The helpless, pitiful demeanor felt uncomfortably, terribly wrong on the heroic adventurer.  For an awful, wretched, moment, Farengar found himself wondering if he would ever hear the bothersome elf’s laughter again as he leaned nonchalantly against his desk, mocking him over some bit of idle nonsense, smiling merrily, aloof in the face of his rancor.

Sitting up, he stretched out his hand and began to pour healing light over the deathly still elf.  He drank every Magicka and Stamina potion he had to restore his energies, but Therion did not stir in the least.

The small girl from before appeared by his side, slipping more potions into his hands as he worked.  The people surrounding him watched intently, tension in the room mounting.

After what felt like eternity, Farengar saw the elf’s eyes flutter open to resounding cries of relief and excitement amongst the strange gathering.

The leader of the Imperials stepped forward, ordering his unit to collect Therion and quite suddenly, the previous mirth vanished as all hell seemed to break lose.

The various gathered parties argued over who would take the Dragonborn, with no one trusting the Imperials, and the Imperials trusting no one else.  Therion blinked, his amber eyes taking in the room with growing comprehension.  Summoning his strength, Farengar heard him quietly call out, only able to hear his voice because he was beside him.

“ _Zul, Mey Gut,”_ the magical words transformed into a voice which seemed to come from every direction.  Therion’s voice, saying one word.  “ _SILENCE._ ”

Everyone fell quiet and watched Therion struggle to lift his hand, slowly motioning Cicero closer.

The jester loyally leapt to the ground upon his hands and knees, lowering his ear to Therion’s lips.  He listened intently as the Dragonborn whispered in labored breaths.

Cicero chuckled manically to himself, nodding, “Oh _yes,_ they shall, Listener, _they shall_ ,” he said the last two words two octaves lower and so menacingly Farengar felt compelled to thank Talos he was probably not the intended target of whatever was being discussed.  Cicero laughed gleefully after another series of whispers.  “It’s as though Cicero is the Listener today!” he cackled, dancing from foot to foot as he stood.  

“General!” he said, looking at the Imperial leader, “A folder for you on the table!  Oh yes, a gift!  Full of interesting tidbits about nasty Thalmor plots against the Empire!  A fun read, full of gritty details,” Cicero said with, what Farengar considered, frightening fascination.  He turned to Brynjolf and Karliah, “The two little birdies are coming with me and my sister dear,” he continued, the little girl appearing once again apparently from nowhere, to stand beside Cicero.  “So much to do!” Cicero exclaimed happily, clapping his hands.

“What about the Dragonborn?” Delphine demanded, looking disgustedly at the jester.  She deplored the Dragonborn’s choice of associates, and found the clown on par with his interest in mixing company with dragons.  “Who does he want to go with?” she asked, glaring at General Tullius, who returned her scorn with confused irritation.

Cicero dropped once more to Therion’s side, eagerly listening, chuckling to himself over his wonderful new role, whispering ‘Cicero, the Listener’s Listener!’ playfully to himself.  After a few labored breaths, Therion managed one word, before his eyes began to flutter once more and he appeared to fall into an exhausted sleep.

“ _Wizard!”_ Cicero repeated loudly for all to hear, relishing his role.  

Farengar looked up, finding himself abruptly and unexpectedly, at the center of attention.


	6. Abeyance

Therion let out a half conscious groan in protest, as he was lifted onto a horse behind Farengar.  The wizard stiffened as Brynjolf rested the Dragonborn against his back and went about tying him in place, so as to secure him against falling from the saddle.  As the Nightingale tightly cinched the elf’s torso, Farengar heard him utter a low, cry of pain, conjuring to mind his recently healed broken ribs.  With only the barest trace of sarcasm, Therion muttered, “Kill me,” into the wizard’s shoulder.

“Though it would make my ride considerably more enjoyable,” Farengar said, craning his head over his shoulder to observe the elf slumped against him, “I suspect your entourage would have some rather strong words with me.”

Therion said nothing in reply.  

Already asleep again, Farengar thought, looking at his closed eyes and even breaths falling against his blue robes.  

The wizard shifted uncomfortably under the watchful gaze of what seemed like an absurd amount of people.  The 8,000 septims worth of jewels from Karliah had not been worth so much hassle, that much was certain.  However, freeing the Thalmor captives from the keep, and ridding Skyrim of a den of justicars, had made the trip more than worthwhile.

    General Tullius rode up beside him on a powerful looking war horse, his unit of soldiers awaiting him by the road, each on their own mounts.  The General was a regal looking figure with an air of authority about him.  His shortly trimmed, white hair, stood out against his tanned skin and leather armor.  Though his face was wrinkled, his muscular physique was unmistakable, leading Farengar to suspect that anyone who fought him with the expectation that he was past his prime, would have a rude awakening in store.

    “Where are you heading?” the General asked, addressing Farengar directly for the first time since he had arrived.

    “Riverwood,” Farengar replied.  The little rural town on the water was not far, making it the logical choice, though Farengar was all but itching to return to Whiterun.  Traveling and dealing with people were two of the activities he loathed most.  

    “We’ll provide an escort for you,” the General said.  From his tone, Farengar gathered it was neither a request nor a suggestion.  “Running into a pack of bandits on the way would be a terrible way to start your morning.”

    “Or Thalmor,” Farengar added pointedly, watching the Imperial’s reaction.

    The General glanced back at his soldiers, safely out of hearing, then leaned forward in his saddle, the morning light reflecting the gold trim of his officer’s armor.

    “Between you and me,” he said, looking directly into Farengar’s eyes, “I wouldn’t mind having an excuse to kill some Thalmor.  Even if it means causing a diplomatic incident.”

“A sentiment I can relate to,” Farengar replied, thinking of the prisoners from the Thalmor keep.  His anger brewed, wondering how many more Nords were locked away while he was casually conversing with the general.

“I haven’t put an elf to the sword since the Great War.  Twentysix years…” the General said, a hint of longing in his voice.  He spared a curious glance at the slumbering Therion.  “Where do you suppose he fits into all of this?  The Thalmor are his kin.”

“I have never asked, and he has expressed no opinion on the matter, but I would hazard that the Dragonborn is not an enthusiastic admirer of the Thalmor,” Farengar said with obvious sarcasm.

“Remarkable, that of everyone here,” General Tullius said thoughtfully, ignoring the cynical remark.  “The Dragonborn preferred entrusting you with his safe keeping.”

Farengar was inclined to agree, given the General had an entire army at his command.

“Well, enough talk.  Let’s get my Legate to Riverwood,” the General said, turning his horse around.

“Legate?” Farengar echoed.

“Yes,” the General replied, nodding at Therion.  “You didn’t know he was an Imperial Legate?”

Farengar spared a curious glance at the sleeping High Elf.  Dragonborn… Legate… Thane… How many more faces did the elf have, he wondered.

General Tullius spurred his horse and Farengar followed, his second rider jostling awkwardly in the saddle with him.  They made good time, arriving in Riverwood just as the sun finished cresting the horizon.

The citizens of Riverwood stopped their morning tasks to look at the Imperials in their leather armor and red cloaks, curiously trying to catch sight of the two men at the center of the riders.  Stopping outside the Sleeping Giant Inn, the General dismounted and helped Farengar with his slumbering charge.

    Farengar watched in weary annoyance as a murmuring crowd of people formed around them.  Embry, the local drunk, cracked open an eye and looked up from his stoop, shading his eyes as he squinted up.

    “Hey!  I knowsh that elf!  That’sh the Dragonshborns!” the blonde man shouted, slurring his words. “What’sh wrong with my favorite drinkin’ buddy?!”

    The Imperials gently moved Embry aside as he tried to pry his way closer, and Farengar hoisted one of Therion’s arms over his shoulders, supporting his weight.  A little girl in a red dress with brown hair crawled up to them, scurrying to avoid getting stepped on by the soldiers, while their attention was focused on the town drunk.  Farengar glared at her as she grabbed a handful of his robe and tugged on it to get his attention.

    “Hey!  Hey, wizard!  What’s wrong with the Dragonborn?” she shouted, jumping up and down.

    Farengar glanced around, hoping one of the soldiers would pluck her off of him.  Finding himself alone, he tried to shake her away.

    “Get off of me,” he ordered her through grit teeth.

    She frowned at his unhelpfulness, but let go of his robes none-the-less, much to his relief.  Instead, she took Therion’s limp hand in hers and squeezed it.

    “Hey!  Dragonborn!” she shouted, shaking his hand.  When this had no effect, her face clouded.

    “Dorthe!  Get yer hide over here _now!_ ” Farengar heard a man shout, and the little girl stiffened.

    She looked up at Farengar to give him a final look of disdain, before she gave Therion’s hand a quick kiss, in what she seemed to consider a manner too subtle for the wizard, or any other observer, to detect.

Her father shook his head as she rejoined him.

“Don’t go running into packs of soldiers!” Farengar heard her father yell, as General Tullius helped him move the Dragonborn into the inn.

“...probably a dragon,” he caught part of the conversation as they moved away.

“No, Papa!  He was cut up real bad, like… like he fell in a mill or something!”

The door to the inn closed behind them, cutting off the din of conversations outside, but was quickly replaced by an all new group of spectators.  Farengar felt his head spin, as they seemed to press in from every direction; crowds of gawking, gossiping, people.  

A no-nonsense looking man with a cleaning cloth in hand approached them, apparently the innkeeper.

“We got rooms and food,” he said gruffly.

Farengar was about to ask about the lodgings when the innkeeper leaned forward, jutting out his chin.

“Follow me,” he said, opening the door to one of the small rooms.

Farengar felt a great wave of relief wash over him as he walked inside, leaving the voices and press of bodies behind.

“I’ll bring some food,” the innkeeper said, turning to leave, as Farengar laid Therion on the bed.

“How much for-”

“Ain’t no charge,” he replied, tossing his cloth over a shoulder.  “Delphine’d kill me if I took your coin.  You like skeever liver?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure.  And I’d prefer to keep it that way,” Farengar said, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.

The innkeeper left with a ‘hmph’.

Farengar sank into the chair facing the bed, already half asleep.  He started as General Tullius entered.

“We’re heading out,” the General informed him.  “Anything I can do for either of you before we leave?”

“Apparently food rations would not go amiss,” Farengar said, dropping his hand from his eyes to his side.

General Tullius chuckled.  “About the only edible thing Orgnar makes is mead.  So long as you don’t let him open the bottle,” he said, nodding to the bottle of Black-Briar Mead on the table beside Farengar. 

 _An all mead diet_ , Farengar thought ruefully.  _Well, it wouldn’t be the first time._

“I’ll leave a few men posted outside the door.  I need to return to Solitude to attend to some important matters.  Like why the hell the Thalmor kidnapped and tortured the Dragonborn.  Take care of my Legate, wizard,” the General said with a final glance at Therion.  With a nod to Farengar, he left, closing the door behind him.

The wizard sighed, wishing he was back at Dragonsreach, about to settle down into his own bed.  Each time he closed his eyes and began to imagine he was home, the cursed lute music seemed to drift through the door and dispel the illusion.  He shifted around in the hard, wooden chair, but he only seemed to become more uncomfortable.  Grunting, he folded his arms and tucked his chin against his chest.  After a few minutes, he snapped his head up in irritation and futilely rearranged himself with a sigh of aggravation.  

Farengar’s eyes fell on the Dragonborn, his chest silently rising and falling.

The color had somewhat returned to his skin, though he was still a terrible sight to behold, covered in bruises and lacerations.  Farengar’s healing magic had reconnected his broken bones and replenished his blood, but the rest of his injuries would take a day or two.  His body would need some time to adjust before it could take any more restoration magic.

Farengar closed his eyes, wondering how he had wound up in such a troublesome position.  Despite everything, he found that each time he looked at the elf, a small part of him silently stirred, wishing the Dragonborn would awaken and smile. Therion’s face, emotionless and empty, was unnerving.


	7. Sky, Spring, Summer

    When Therion finally awoke, the room was quiet and still, lit only by the dull flame of a single candle.  His breath caught in his throat, as he took in the small chamber, unsure where he was.  Pulse quickening, his wide amber eyes swept the place, searching for Thalmor.  The sight of Farengar, sitting stiffly in the chair beside him, took him by surprise.  The tall Nord was sleeping awkwardly in his seat, his frame bent so uncomfortably, Therion surmised he could only have achieved sleep through a combination of sheer, prideful, determination and exhaustion.  

    Therion inhaled awkwardly, his breathing becomingly increasingly difficult.  He tried to breath normally, but found his chest was tight.  Each time he drew breathe, his upper body responded by aching violently, forcing him to breath in quick, shallow breaths, lending him to anxiety.  

Wincing, he remembered his final evening with the Thalmor.  Though he quickly tried to dispel the memory, he could still recollect the violent, forceful blows of justicar boots kicking his chest with, what seemed to be, remarkably boundless enthusiasm.  Ondolemar had found them and intervened, shouting in outrage.  An argument had passed between them as he had laid gasping on the floor, something about rank and status being yelled back and forth, when they were interrupted by a sudden commotion within the keep.  Shortly after, he had awoken to find what seemed like half of Skyrim shouting in disagreement.

    Rubbing his fingers together, Therion tried to summon his magicka.  A weak, golden light, flickered erratically in his palm, refusing to obey his weary command.

Farengar’s head drooped forward and slid from his shoulder, causing him to wake with a start.  

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked sleepily, looking disapprovingly at Therion’s vain attempts at restoration.  The wizard extended his hands, enveloping the mer in shimmering, gold light.  "Apart from trying to kill yourself with exhaustion."

Therion relaxed slightly, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as he felt the tightness in his chest begin to give way to the soothing warmth of the magic washing through his aching body.  Farengar paused momentarily, letting his magicka regenerate, then Therion heard the spell resume with its familiar soft chimes.  The wizard was clearly unsuited to healing magic, regularly pausing to recover his energies.

Therion was just able to comfortably draw a full breath of air into his lungs when Farengar stopped.  Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the mage.  

Farengar had slumped forward in his chair, leaning precariously to one side, dark circles evident beneath his closed eyes.

"Hypocrite," Therion said softly.

He watched Farengar drift slightly too far to the side, and dashed forward, catching the man just as he collapsed.  He held the unconscious wizard in his arms, momentarily dazed.  

Farengar's lean frame was sturdy and strong, unlike any other wizard he had ever encountered.  That was the Nords for you, he thought, even their mages seemed to be built for warfare.  Even through his thick, blue robes, he could feel the remarkable warmth of the Nord's body, compared to his own.  Had Farengar been mer or any other race of man, he would have thought him feverish.  

Reluctantly, he took one of the wizard's arms over his shoulder, and gently laid him on the bed to rest.

Therion stared into Farengar’s face, suddenly unsure of himself. Perhaps he was simply over tired and troubled from his recent experiences.  However, as he gazed at the sleeping wizard, an overwhelming wave of protectiveness gripped him, the ferocity of his feelings catching him by surprise.   

Of all the humans in Skyrim, Therion had always enjoyed Farengar's company most.  The wizard's humorous, sharp wit and thoughtful nature, found Therion returning to Dragonsreach often.  At first he had wondered if he simply found Farengar similar in attitude to his own people, but in time, he had found Farengar was uniquely, well, Farengar.  Skyrim was a lonely place to be mer, but teasing the proud mage always made the days more pleasant.

Therion rubbed his forehead, baffled and slightly worried by the direction of his thoughts.

Developing legitimate feelings for a human was not a thought he had ever seriously entertained; his life was complicated enough.  

He shook his head and laughed.

Well, he thought to himself with a low chuckle, it hardly mattered.  Whatever his feelings were toward Farengar, more than likely, Farengar would be the last person in Tamriel to be aware of them.  He was surprisingly dense about such matters.  Furthermore, Therion would not remain in Skyrim much longer; he had a war to wage on his kinsman.

After a final glance at the sleeping wizard, he quietly left, emerging into the main room of the Sleeping Giant Inn, his folded Nightingale armor in hand.  The Imperials beside the door turned to face him and, as they recognized his identity, saluted.  One was a young man with short blonde hair, the other a more experienced looking veteran woman with braided, black hair.

“At ease,” Therion said, closing the door behind him.  “How long have I been out?”

“Only since this morning,” the young man replied quickly, eager to please Therion.  “Is there anything you require, Sir?”

“Yes,” Therion replied, keen to get away from both of the soldiers and be alone.  “A bath.  You’re both dismissed.  Eat a hot meal, enjoy your evening, and return to General Tullius after you’ve rested.”

“Sir!” the young man replied in protest as Therion turned to leave, “The General was very adamant that we remain at your side.”

“What he means,” the woman chimed in, “Is that the General will have both our arses on a platter if you walk out that door and get mugged.  No offense, but you look like death warmed over.  Sir.”

Therion ran a hand through his short, gold hair.  He detested relying on others and was in no mood for pointless social pleasantries, but he had to admit that even a mudcrab could give him a run for his money in his current state.  Between thieves, Thalmor, vampires, and Gods forbid, dragons, walking down the street was taking one’s life into their own hands.  Little wonder Nords were the most stubborn, resilient race on the face of Nirn.

“Fine,” Therion agreed, gesturing to the young Imperial.  “You may follow me.  And I will do my utmost to stay alive so the General doesn’t toss you both from Castle Dour.  You,” he said, turning to the older imperial, “May stay here and see that my sleeping friend isn’t disturbed.  I’ll return in a while.”

Therion swiftly turned away and left the inn before either could argue, emerging into the night air of Riverwood, as the young Imperial soldier scurried after him to keep up.  A light rain began to fall as they made their way toward the Riverwood Trader.  Therion enjoyed the cold drops and open sky, having been cooped up indoors far too long, and happily let the rain fall on his bare skin.  The soldier beside him kept staring at him with such intense fascination that Therion finally stopped in his tracks.

“Spit it out,” he said more plainly than he meant to, too tired to muster his usual charm.  Nothing like a week of semi-conscious torture to make a mer peevish, he thought to himself with bitter sarcasm.  “What is it...?”

“Lorgren,” the auxiliary replied, introducing himself.  “I… That is… Everyone calls you ‘Dragonborn’.  I only just transferred here from Cyrodiil.  The Nords in the Imperial City say you have the soul of a dragon and can shout words so powerful, they tear the sky apart!  That you can shout a man to death, or bring them back to life!”  Therion stared flatly at the boy as they resumed their walk, partly amused by the rumors and partly regretting letting him play bodyguard; his enthusiasm for talking seemed to know no bounds.  “Some say you’re Tiber Septim, reincarnated!  We all thought they were embellishing, but then we found out the tales of dragons proved to be true, we started to wonder, what else could be?  Well, when I arrived in Skyrim, many of the other auxiliaries confirmed a lot of the stories.  And, well, I never thought I’d meet a living legend.”

Lorgren grinned a bit sheepishly, watching the Dragonborn.

Therion stared at the eager faced child for a moment before he began to chuckle, then burst into hearty laughter.

“Sorry,” the Dragonborn finally said to the confused Lorgren.  “I’m just trying to imagine the- the old Imperials in the Elder Council, choking on _that_ rumor…  An Altmer reincarnation of their precious “Divine” Emperor… Oh that would be rich. I don’t know who would want me dead more, every mer on Nirn, or the entire Empire,” he held his sides, concerned that he might re-injure his ribs.  The most delicious irony, he kept quietly to himself.  He doubted Lorgren would appreciate hearing that he had personally sacked the Imperial Palace during the Great War.  Cyrodiil was still rebuilding the palace.

“My soul is mer, Lorgren.  Not Imperial.  Not dragon. _I am mer_ ,” Therion said firmly. Though he hated the Thalmor, he was still Altmer, a fact that many seemed to prefer to forget or ignore.  “And I cannot raise the dead.  That’s necromancers.  And the results are less than desirable.”

Lorgren mumbled something and looked at his boots, walking with a bit less spring in his step.

Therion stopped.

After a moment, Lorgren turned back to look at him.

Taking a deep breath, Therion lifted his head up, shouting “ _Lok… VAH KOOR!”_ toward the sky.  His thu’um echoed loudly, the force of his words creating a ripple of light as the air around him exploded in a loud ‘crack!’.

The rain slowed, then stopped.  As Therion walked on, the dark clouds overhead dispersed, revealing the constellations and the shining twin moons.

Lorgren ran after him with a large grin on his face.


	8. Succession

Lorgren opened the door to the Riverwood Trader, Therion following behind him.  Camilla looked up from her seat next to the hearth, giving the uniformed Imperial a lingering, appreciative look.  The young, blonde smiled shyly at her, earning him a scowl from Camilla’s brother, Lucan, as he looked up from stocking the counter.

“Welcome to the Riverwood Trader- _Dragonborn!_ ” Lucan exclaimed as he spotted Therion, his eyes wide.  

Camilla gasped, leaping from her chair.

“What- Oh,” Therion said, examining himself for the first time.  He had given little thought to his appearance, driven solely by the desire to get supplies and bathe.  His chest and tattered clothing were both smeared unpleasantly with dried blood.  The other soldier’s ‘death warmed over’ comment suddenly seemed almost generous, as he examined his half-healed cuts and bruises.  “Pardon my state of undress.  I’m in the market for new clothing, as you can see.”

“Of course…” Lucan said, looking dazed as he nodded and went through his shelves.

Camilla stared openly at Therion’s body in mute abhorrence.

“This is dreadful,” she finally said after recovering from her initial shock.  “It was the Thalmor, wasn’t it?”

Therion nodded.

“This is too much!” Camilla shouted, looking enraged.  “We left Cyrodiil after they ruined everything, and now they’re determined to do the same to Skyrim!”

Lucan looked at his sister nervously.  “Camilla…” he said gently, trying to calm her, knowing her self-preservation instincts went out the window when she became righteously angry.  Therion accurately guessed her brother was picturing Camilla grabbing a sword twice her size and running off to the nearest Thalmor embassy.

Therion walked over to Camilla, gently taking her chin in his hand and lifting her eyes to meet his.  

“Nothing will ruin Skyrim,” he said softly.  “On my honor.”

Camilla looked convinced by his words, her ire subsiding, and a faint blush forming on her cheeks.  

Beyond confessing to Farengar that his honor, and his word, were dubious at best, few people doubted him, so he swore oaths indiscriminately, employing allurement and seduction whenever possible to achieve his own ends… although results varied with Nords.

Therion removed his hand from Camilla's chin and turned to Lucan, who merely looked irritated with the flirtatious Dragonborn.  Laying out a set of clothing on the counter, Lucan paused, disdainfully noticing Therion’s lack of coin purse. He looked torn about bringing up payment.

Setting his Nightingale armor on the counter, Therion turned the chest piece inside out and moved his thumb across one of the seams.  From a hidden pocket in the lining, invisible to Lucan’s eyes even as he watched the mer reach into it, he produced a sapphire and set it between them.

“I’ll take soap, towels, and any food you can spare.  Tasting Orgnar’s Skeever pot pie once was one time too many,” Therion said sincerely.  In retrospect, it had been the worst drunken decision of his life, and that included stealing goats with the Daedric Prince of debauchery.

“I have some bread and dried meats,” Lucan said, gathering his order.  “Say, any thoughts on the moot?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood. "The country is rumbling with excitement over it.”

Therion had completely forgotten about the moot and said as much.  Broadly speaking, he had no interest in the convening of Skyrim’s Jarls to select the next High King or High Queen of Skyrim.  The meeting would be so much pageantry, followed by the selection of Elisif.  Therion knew the only thing that would change in Skyrim from her appointment, was the type of crown she wore on her head.  Whatever her short comings, Therion appreciated that she was a known quantity.  Whatever the Empire wanted, she would do.  The only trick then, was telling the Empire what to tell her.

“Elisif has been traveling Skyrim, garnering support from the Jarls,” Lucan went on, enjoying sharing a tidbit of gossip.  “She’s currently in Markarth, discussing ways of bolstering the city’s defenses against the Forsworn with Jarl Igmund.”

Therion suppressed the desire to curl his lip in disgust at the mention of Igmund, feeling his detest for the man.  Instead he gave Lucan an intrigued ‘hmm’.  Skyrim would never have had a civil war in the first place, if the Jarl of Markarth had possessed a spine.

“Maybe the moot will choose the Dragonborn?” Lorgren wondered aloud, speaking for the first time since he entered the shop.

Camilla, Lucan, and Therion gave him mirrored looks of disbelief.

Lorgren stared back at them in confusion.

“Ah, no,” Therion explained, “Skyrim chooses its succession from the monarchy.  And if there is no one available from the monarchy, then from the jarls.  And, not to put too fine a point on it, but the moot would sooner set fire to the country than let a mer rule it.”

“Oh…” Lorgren said, a little surprised.  “Even though you’re…?”

“I’m mer, Lorgren,” he said, echoing his earlier words to the young soldier.

“But if you were a Nord?” Lorgren asked curiously.

Therion laughed silently at the boy's complete lack of tact.

“Then I would probably be considerably less attractive and I would have been dead _ages_ ago,” he said with a wink, avoiding the question.

Therion bid Lucan and Camilla farewell and left.

He hurried to the White River, aching to feel the cool water and the peace he knew it would bring.  At the bank, he impatiently stripped out of his repulsive, ragged clothing as he ran, leaping gratefully into the clean water as he kicked off the last of his garments.  He swam out into the center of the river and, with a crack of magic from his right hand, let himself sink beneath the surface.  Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the cooling relief, only moving occasionally to resist the pull of the current. With a relaxed sigh, he ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head until his hair dampened and floated in the tide.  He lay blissfully on the bottom of the river bed for a minute, looking up at the rippling surface of the water, until he suspected his water breathing spell was close to done.  Setting his feet against the sand, he pushed himself away from the river bed, swimming back to the surface.  As he emerged into the crisp, night air, he saw Lorgren charging into the water, still in his armor.

Treading water, Therion chuckled at the soldier standing waist deep in the river.

“I thought you were drowning!” Lorgren called out to him, looking relieved.

“So you decided to sink to the bottom and drown with me in your armor.  How thoughtful of you!” Therion answered with friendly sarcasm.  “Toss me the soap.”

Lorgren returned to the shore and dug through Therion’s belongings, obediently tossing him the bar.  His aim was off, and it went wide to the right.  Therion stretched out his hand, and Lorgren saw it stop in mid air, then float over to the the mer’s open hand.

“That’s amazing!” Lorgren called.  “I always heard mer were really good with magic.  I wish I could do that.  Maybe I could use it to stop arrows?”

“You’re from Cyrodiil, and you’re impressed by telekinesis?” Therion asked in surprise, moving closer so they wouldn’t have to shout back and forth while he scrubbed his body and hair clean.

“I’m from western Cyrodiil,” Lorgren said, sitting down cross legged at the edge of the river.  “Not many Imperials from the west can cast magic.  At least, none that I ever met.  They say it’s because we’re descended from Nords.”

“Well, mer aren’t born knowing magic.  Altmer learn basic destruction, restoration, and illusion magic as children.  And as for telekinesis,” he said, rinsing the soap from his hair, “if you can see an arrow coming at you, it’s probably too late.”

“Guess I’m not missing out then,” Lorgren said, selecting a flat stone and throwing it across the river, watching it skip several times before sinking.

Therion emerged from the water, retrieving his Nightingale armor, and set to work scrubbing it clean in the river.

“Couldn’t you heal those cuts, with your magic?” Lorgren asked, eyeing the jagged marks on Therion’s chest.

“You are full of questions, aren’t you?” Therion asked.  There seemed to be no end to the number of things the boy asked about.

“Yep!” Lorgren exclaimed with a grin, as if he heard the comment often.

“There are limits to what a body can take,” Therion explained dispassionately, tossing aside the washed armor as he emerged from the river and dried himself with a towel.  “And even if I could absorb any more restoration magic, I saw stars just trying to levitate that bar of soap.  So I probably ought to avoid casting magic.  But, old habits,” he said with a shrug.

Lorgren quietly skipped rocks on the river and Therion enjoyed the quiet.  The peace lasted less than a minute.

“How old are you?” Lorgren asked.

Therion looked heavenward, silently asking Auriel to grant him patience.

“Why do you wish to know?” he replied with disdain, slipping on his new small clothes and trousers.

“Well, if you were human, I’d say you were, mmm, early to mid twenties?  And some people say elves live to be a thousand!” Lorgren said.  “So, how do you guys age, is my question, I guess.”

“I’m cutting you off,” Therion said, buttoning his shirt.  “You get one last question, and then I’m no longer obligated to answer anything.  Are you sure you want to use your question on mer aging?”

Lorgren thought for a moment and then nodded.

“I’m one hundred thirty four.  If you raised a mer and a man side by side, they would reach puberty and adult life with no difference.  Once a mer reaches adulthood, their body ages dramatically slower to what you’re accustomed to.  You could liken your decades of life to our centuries, but only in changes of outward appearance.  Mentally we develop the same as men, which is to say, a thirty year old mer is every bit as mature, as a thirty year old man, and he is treated as such.  As for living to a thousand, it happens as rarely as a human lives to a hundred.  It isn’t impossible, but it’s unlikely.  Living to eight hundred is a grand achievement.  Disease, war, violence, and just plain bad luck are likely to strike a mer dead long before old age has the opportunity.”

Therion shook the water from his armor and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Speaking of age,” Therion said as they began their walk back to the inn.  “I have a difficult time believing you’re old enough to be in the Imperial Legion.  Did you sneak your way into the army?”

“I’m just short,” Lorgren protested, folding his arms and scowling.  “It’s completely unfair.  Everyone thinks I’m a kid.”

“Maybe if you didn’t sulk like one,” Therion began with a smile when his ears suddenly perked up.  “Move,” he said, pushing Lorgren aside as he stepped back from the dirt road.  A rider tore around the corner a moment later, pushing their horse at full speed.

The rider dismounted outside the inn, quickly nailed a paper to the door, and then was off again.  Lorgren ran over to investigate the document, Therion following quickly behind him.

“There’s been a Forsworn attack on Markarth!” Lorgren read aloud, eyes wide.  “The Jarl of Solitude, Lady Elisif the Fair, is dead.”

 


	9. Trekking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon language translation at the end (in case you're like me and you have to stop what you're doing and look up the translation when you see it).

Farengar awoke the next morning to find some dried meat and bread sitting on his bedside table.  Glad to fill his stomach with something other than mead, he ate the food quickly, eager to leave Riverwood.  Although the terrible lute music was no longer playing, he could find no peace of mind.  In its stead was the much louder roar of a crowd, noisily discussing things in near pandemonium, their booming voices intruding through the thin walls of his room.  He did not bother trying to determine the source of their discontent, uninterested in discerning the opinions the loud and inebriated.

Finished with his breakfast and bracing himself mentally, he emerged into the great room of the Sleeping Giant Inn.  The cacophony of voices were worse than he had anticipated, making the corner of his mouth twitch at the assault.  His sea green eyes swept through the inn, searching for any sign of the Dragonborn.

As his eyes fell on the Innkeeper, Orgnar met his gaze, waving him over.  The surly man jerked a thumb toward the exit, shouting to be heard above the din, “The Dragonborn said to tell you he’d be at the blacksmith!”

Farengar needed no further prompting and quickly left, inhaling deeply once he was standing outside in the clear morning air.  The sun was already high in the sky, casting warm light over the small Nord settlement.  An insistent bark caught his attention, and he turned to see a dog grinning happily at him from beneath a bench, on which sat a young boy in a brown tunic with platinum blonde hair.  The child, presumably the dog’s owner, examined him, or more precisely his blue and gold robes, with a haughty sneer.  

“Pa says magic’s for milk drinkers,” the boy taunted, giving Farengar an insolent stare as he waited for the adult to react with sputtered indignation.

Farengar answered swiftly with practiced ease.  “He sounds like a modest man with much to be modest about,” the wizard said, turning an impassive gaze on the boy, still puzzling over Farengar’s remark.  “Do you have any insults that weren’t thought up by a goat brained farmer?”

His mouth hung open while his dog barked happily, wanting to be a part of the conversation.

“I didn’t think so.  Well then, keep working on it, maybe someday with enough practice you might even surpass your father and come up with something better than a rot brained Draugr could,” Farengar said pleasantly, as he walked down the stairs to the main road.

“You…! You’re… You’re a snow-back!” Frodnar shouted after the mage.

“I think the dog could have done better than that.  Keep trying, lad!” Farengar said with an indifferent wave, not even turning around as he left the boy glaring after him, red faced.

A brown chicken ran across his path, making Farengar miss Dragonsreach all the more.  He felt out of sorts, being away from his research and his home.  He preferred to spend his time reading; not surrounded by loud crowds, wandering livestock, and insolent children.

The Divines must have heard his thoughts, he guessed, as he came upon another child at the blacksmith’s -  the little girl with brown hair from the previous day who had latched onto his robe.

Dorthe looked up from her anvil where she was shaping a horseshoe, and frowned disapprovingly at Farengar as he paused in front of her porch.  

Splendid.  She remembers me too, it would seem, Farengar thought cynically.

Dorthe set down her hammer and walked over to the wood rail, and Farengar watched with curiosity as she hoisted herself up to stand upon it.  Using a wooden beam for support, she reached up into the hay thatching of the roof and grabbed hold of an all but invisible black boot, giving it a good shake.

“Therion!” she called sharply.  “Wizard’s here,” she said, adding a note of distaste to the word ‘wizard’.

    Farengar heard a deep yawn and watched as the Dragonborn slowly emerged from the thatch, clad once more in his black leather armor.  Therion stretched lazily, extending his lithe body with impressive flexibility.  With a sigh of satisfaction he dropped his arms and, as his gaze fell on to Farengar, he let a sly grin form on his lips.  In one nimble motion, he grabbed the edge of the roof with his hands, and flipped forward, agilely landing before him.  

The wizard looked at him inquisitively.  However he had expected adventurers, or at least the Dragonborn, to move, it had certainly not been like this.

“You’re covered in hay!” Dorthe said with a laugh, breaking Farengar’s trance.

“Am I?” Therion replied, trying, without success, to dust himself off.

“I told you to sleep inside,” Dorthe chided, snickering at the impressive amount of hay in his dark gold hair.  In response, he tossed a handful of it over her head, causing her to shriek at him amidst laughter.  

“As I said, I’ve had enough of being indoors for awhile.  And I prefer to sleep where no one can sneak up on me,” he replied, retrieving his pack from behind the forge.

Farengar wondered how safe Therion could ever feel sleeping again, after his most recent encounter.  Even Whiterun, which had always felt invulnerable to outside forces such as the Thalmor, had proven vulnerable.  At the thought of the Thalmor, he felt his blood begin to boil again, thinking of the Nord victims held captive in their keeps.

“You’re leaving?  Already?” Dorthe asked sadly, watching Therion retrieve his things.

The elf snorted.  “Spare me the guilt.”

“But you’re still hurt,” Dorthe protested.

“Farengar will take care of me,” Therion said, turning his most charming smile on the wizard.

Farengar countered with a disparaging look, determined to show his immunity to the Dragonborn’s trite routine of flattery.  The elf was used to getting his way by gaining the adoration of those around him; using his charisma to charm every guard, cook, maid, and member of the court in Dragonsreach.  Even Irileth, (well, to a certain degree).  He would have none of it.

As Farengar continued to stare reproachfully at him, Therion’s smile seemed to only intensify, as if purposefully vexing him.  The wizard could not remember why he had ever wished that the elf would reawaken and wondered if it would really have been so bad if he had remained in an exhausted sleep, at least for a little while longer.  Why had he been convinced seeing him smile would be anything other than infuriating?

“I am returning to Dragonsreach.  I assume that it is also your destination?” Farengar asked.

“Indeed it is,” Therion said, placing his arm through a strap attached to a quiver of arrows and slinging a bow behind his back.  “Shall we be off?”

The Dragonborn bid farewell to Dorthe and the two men set out through the town and finally onto the main road, leading deep into the wilderness.

Despite his recent injuries, the Dragonborn looked more than capable of handling trouble, making him a useful asset as a traveling companion. Adorned with his weapons and armor, he even looked rather formidable.  Curious, he concentrated, tilting his head to the side and letting his eyes unfocus.  As he suspected, there was a faint, dark green tint about the edges of his armor.  Probably a form of stamina enchantment.  He shifted his gaze to the Akaviri dai-katana on his belt, which had a curious red hue to it.  Farengar could only guess at its purpose, possibly health related.  He rarely bothered with sword enchantments, finding martial weaponry in general to be entirely tedious.

“See anything that interests you?” Therion asked, smirking at the wizard.

“Hardly,” Farengar replied briskly, looking away.  “I was just noticing you managed to locate all of your equipment.  Your friends insisted I haul its weight back to Riverwood along with your person.”

“Oh?  Which ‘friends’ were these?” Therion asked with interest, picking a blue mountain flower from beside the path and tucking it into his pack.

Farengar’s mind reflexively listed off its alchemical attributes.

“The ones who paid me handsomely to journey out in the dead of night on the errand of tracking you,” Farengar replied, sounding generally displeased about venturing away from Whiterun.

“If they paid… that would be Bryn and Karliah.  How much do I owe them?” Therion asked thoughtfully, adding, “Just how much did it take to pry you out of your study?”  He would have sooner expected a Daedric Prince to rescue him (or come claim his soul), than to open his eyes and find Farengar, of all people, saving him from death.  The man was notorious for his resolve to never leave his research.

“I will say that your companions value your life quite highly, and leave it at that,” Farengar said, momentarily speaking with refined words and using court etiquette.  “You seem to have made a remarkable number of friends in Skyrim,” he observed.  Farengar doubted he had as many acquaintances in Skyrim as there had been people showing up to find the Dragonborn the previous night.

Therion laughed, and Farengar frowned, unsure what he had said that could be considered amusing.

“Sorry,” he replied peacefully waving a hand, “But I’ve only made one friend in Skyrim, so your comment was somewhat amusing.  The people you saw… I’d call them associates.”

“Quite an interesting array of ‘associates’.  Tell me, where did you make the acquaintance of the mad jester?  A rather unsettling fellow, that one.  I think the guards let him into Dragonsreach on a lark,” Farengar said, still upset with the palace sentries.

The laughter quickly left Therion’s eyes and was replaced by something Farengar had never witnessed before in the Dragonborn.  He looked petrified.

“Gods, you met Cicero?” Therion demanded loudly.  “Inside Dragonsreach?!”

Farengar watched the elf’s reaction with interest.  He had never seen him so disturbed before; it was a stark contrast from his normally unshakable and aloof attitude.

“Yes, he came into my office looking for-” Farengar began, but stopped as he watched Therion’s eyes widen drastically, both shock and fury at war across his face.  “You have me at a loss.  Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me, why you look as if I’ve just described casually meeting Sheogorath at the local inn for a pint?”

“An apt metaphor,” Therion said, calming himself and running a hand across his face.  “But Sheogorath is not nearly as dangerous as Cicero.  I’ve had a drink with the prince of madness and he was rather pleasant, despite initially threatening to flay me alive and skip rope with my entrails.  Cicero, on the other hand…” he trailed off.  “I am surprised you are… still intact.  I should clarify something right now.  Never be alone with Cicero.”

“Ah,” Farengar said, unsure how to respond to such a chilling warning.  

“And do not send guards after him,” Therion added emphatically, picturing a sea of dead Whiterun guards, and a very vengeful Cicero approaching the court wizard.  He shook his head.  “Just… find me, if at all possible.”

“Fair enough…” Farengar said, not wanting to press the issue.  “Tell me then, which of your associates might I consider trustworthy?”

“If they’re with me?” Therion replied, thinking to himself for a moment.  “Honestly?  I just assume the worst, that way I can only be pleasantly surprised.”

Farengar gave him a quizzical look before returning to his usual, thoughtful silence.

Therion tried to focus on the beautiful spring day in an attempt to distract himself from his aching chest and pounding head.  A small voice told him he should be in bed resting, but he ignored it.  He needed to reach Dragonsreach and speak with Jarl Balgruuf.  Events were moving quickly and he did not have the luxury of idling.  Rubbing his fingers together, he worked his magicka ever so slightly into tiny embers, testing his strength.  The trees immediately began to blur and he blinked away a feeling of lightheadedness, as he opened his hand and shut his mind closed from his magicka.  

Well, casting a healing spell was right out.  He sighed internally, looking at Farengar, debating setting aside his pride and asking for help.  He wrinkled his nose.  In the Summerset Isle, asking a mer for help with magic was disgracefully weak.  Whiterun wasn’t that far.  He could easily stop in Breezehome and make himself several healing potions.

Dragonsreach came into view between the trees as they rounded a bend.  The path they walked wound around the base of a mountain.  Therion had traveled this way many times, and looked over at a familiar cave, a landmark which always signaled his journey was halfway over.  Trees, mossy rocks, flowers, and butterflies dotted the path in each direction.  The mer looked around, appreciating the picturesque morning.  As he gazed up into the sky, he felt a small chill along his spine; a sense of foreboding which usually preceded one thing.  He froze in place, wondering if he had slighted any of the eight Divines recently, as he held his breath and listened.  

An earsplitting, bestial roar erupted over the trees, followed by the sound of rushing air.

Farengar’s head eagerly snapped up, excitedly looking around.  

Therion merely sighed in exasperation.  Reaching behind his back, he pulled his bow free and nocked an arrow, silently hoping the beast would pass by overhead without noticing them.

He heard the words, “ _YOL TOOR SHUL!_ ” and was already leaping to the side on the first syllable.  A wall of hot, bright flame came down where he had just been, leaving a long trail of black, smoking ash across the path, tinged with fire.

The deafening thrashing of air returned as the creature landed, shaking the ground with its massive body, causing stones and dirt to spray in all directions.

Farengar shielded his eyes, and as the dust settled, he slowly stared up in awe.  

A dragon.  

A real dragon.  

He had never imagined how incredibly large they would look in real life.  The gigantic, bronze dragon growled, so low he could feel it reverberate in his chest. Dense, black smoke billowed from its ferocious looking maw in a steady stream.  With a sweep of its tattered, spade tail, it turned and stalked toward him, it’s sharp talons digging into the earth with each resounding step.  Farengar stared up into its yellow, compound eyes.  Transfixed, forgetting to breath, rooted in place by fascination and terror.

A wave of force knocked him back into the grass as the dragon snapped its massive jaws shut on thin air, narrowly missing the wizard.  Three arrows sank into the dragon’s neck, all in a row.  The beast threw its head back and let loose a shrill cry, as more arrows sailed past its thrashing body, several hitting their mark.  Flapping its leathery wings, it began to lift off the ground.

Therion rolled beneath the elder dragon as it began its ascent, the tip of its wing brushing his back as he passed below.  Dashing forward at a run, he stopped to hoist the staggered mage onto his shoulder, shouting “ _Wuld Nah Kest!_ ”

The dragon shouted more words which became smoldering red flame, but they harmlessly struck a stone as Therion ran at an inhuman pace, using his whirlwind sprint to dive through the trees.

He darted into the nearby cave, not caring what he might encounter as he ran inside, dropping Farengar beside him, as he fell to a knee, still clutching his bow with a nocked arrow in his right hand.

“What,” Therion shouted at Farengar, his words punctuated by panting breaths, “is wrong with you?!  Are you completely-” his words were drowned out by a vehement roar from the cave’s entrance, where the dragon breathed wild gouts of flame from too far a distance to do anything more than raise the ambient temperature.

Therion glared back at it with the annoyed look of one who had just been rudely interrupted mid-sentence.  With a casual snap of his bowstring, he delivered an arrow to the center of the dragon’s brow, causing it to roar in pain and surprise.

    “Gods damned dragons,” Therion muttered wearily, his head pounding violently along with rest of his body.  He felt on the verge of collapse, but he steeled his voice and savagely shouted, “ _Zu'u, Dovahkiin, hin daan!_ ”

    Farengar sat up, finally free of the staggering effect of Therion’s unrelenting force, his mouth agape.  There had been no special effects following his words.  The Dragonborn was actually shouting in Dragon, instead of, well, shouting in Dragon.  He wasn’t entirely clear on the differences as a whole, but one appeared to be mindlessly flinging words around like battle axes, while the other seemed to be conversing in a language.  Of Dragons.

“ _Meyz nu Dovahkiin?!_ ” the dragon shouted back in surprise, its low voice reverberating through the cave.

“ _Meyye!_  Who else?!” Therion spat back.

“ _Krosis_ , sorry,” the dragon said in a deeply humble voice. “I do not wish to fight you, Dovahkiin.”

“Then fly,” Therion commanded in a low voice.

To his relief the dragon turned around, and he heard the rush of wind from the beating of its wings as it departed.

Farengar stared at him in fascination, but Therion didn’t notice as he distantly heard his bow clatter to the ground.  The next thing he knew, he was staring at the cave floor.  He numbly felt Farengar’s hand move him side to side, looking for injury.  The wizard was saying something, but he couldn’t hear the words over the pounding in his head.  Healing light coursed through him, gradually softening the deafening sound of his pulse in his ears until he could hear again.

“Thank you,” Therion said in a sigh as the pain in his body was washed away.  “Were you saying something just now?”

Farengar wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe, sparing him a disapproving look as he did so.

“I called you a stubborn fool of an elf,” he explained, pausing to recover his magicka.  “I thought you were fatally wounded by the dragon.  You could have said your injuries were bothering you.”

“And miss the look of concern on your face?” Therion teased.  

“I wear no such expression,” Farengar said plainly, renewing his healing efforts.  The spell was taxing, but not nearly as much as it had been the previous night.  “During my brief travels with you, my restoration magic has improved by leaps and bounds.  How have you survived this long, pushing your body to such idiotic extremes?”

“Wait, are you actually worried about me?” Therion laughed mockingly, his spirits lifting as he teased the wizard.

Farengar snorted.  “Merely an observation,” he said, lowering his hands as his spell finished.  “How are you feeling now?  And be honest.  Unless you’re planning on savoring my ‘look’ of malice, when we’re carved up by bandits.”

Therion took stock of his body and tried to sit up.  The effort was strenuous, but he managed to reach a sitting position and leaned back against the cool cave wall.

He grumbled something inaudibly.

“Pardon?” Farengar asked, as the elf became suddenly silent, stubbornly setting his jaw and glancing away.  “Ah,” Farengar said, watching the way he wrinkled his nose; he had seen Therion do so on several occasions in Dragonsreach.  An unconscious habit of his, Farengar thought, one he made whenever frustrated, but particularly, when he had to ask for something.

Extending his hands, he wordlessly resumed healing.  He ran through his magicka twice more, before Therion waved his hands away and stood up.  Well, as much as he could.  The six-foot-five mer had to stoop to avoid hitting his head.  Much as he did across Skyrim.  Which was always off putting to him, having been considered on the shorter side by Altmer standards.

Hooking his bow once more behind his back, he exited the cave and stretched to his full height, feeling immensely better.

“I can murder as many bandits as you like,” Therion reassured his companion, “But I make no promises about dragons.”

“Well, what did you say to the last one?”  Farengar asked, still impressed as much by the dragon’s reaction as by Therion’s ability to speak the Dragon tongue.  “It practically tucked its tail between its legs as it flew away.”

“Hm, what did I say?” he wondered aloud, trying to remember.  “I think it boiled down to ‘fuck off’,” he said with a shrug, walking to the main road.

“And that... works?” Farengar asked quizzically.  All his research would feel rather underwhelming if that were the case.

“Well, I wouldn’t advise you try it.  I made it clear I was Dragonborn.  Since I killed Alduin, most dragons prefer to avoid me if possible.  They don’t want me as an enemy.”

Farengar wondered what the Dragonborn looked like, fighting a dragon at full strength.

“How did you learn to speak their language?  Is it because of your Dragonborn abilities?” Farengar asked eagerly, a million questions springing to mind.  “Are there any other types of souls you can absorb?  Any humanoids?”

Therion blinked in surprise as Farengar asked with such bright enthusiasm he could scarcely recognize him as the same man.

“Human souls?  No, not without a black soul gem and some questionable life choices,” he said.  “And my grasp on dragon is not exactly… fluent.  I’m told my pronunciation is nothing short of appalling,” he said with a laugh.  “But, it’s slowly improving.  I just happen to enjoy languages, so I’m studying with a friend in what little spare time I get to myself.  But, no, being Dragonborn doesn’t give me an intimate knowledge of vocabulary and pronunciation.  It just allows me to wield the words properly as weapons with my thu’um.”

Farengar nodded eagerly, fascinated by the topic.

“I’ve heard it said that fighting between dragons is much like a deadly verbal debate.  How I envy your knowledge of such a power, to fight with words,” the wizard said.

“It’s not as elegant as you’re imagining, I think,” Therion said slowly.  He smiled, enjoying the excited light in the man’s eyes.  “You could call it a ‘deadly verbal debate’, but it’s not the most cerebral exchange.  More like an argument over elements if anything.  Fire!  Lightning!  Fire!” he said with a chuckle.

“Yes, but you’re actually killing your enemies with your words!” Farengar said, intrigued by the concept.

“Oh yes, quite the language of love,” Therion laughed.  “Then again, I could imagine some women finding that appealing.”

“How do you absorb the soul of a dragon?”  Farengar asked, already on to his next question.  “What does it feel like?

Therion happily launched into an explanation, enjoying the opportunity to entertain the Nord as they made their way to Whiterun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon Translation:  
>  _Zu'u, Dovahkiin, hin daan!_ \- I, the Dragonborn, will be your doom!  
>  _Meyz nu Dovahkiin?!_ \- You're the Dragonborn?!  
>  _Meyye!_ \- Fool!  
>  _Krosis_ \- Sorry


	10. Wards and Armor

Farengar grit his teeth as they made their way through the large gate of Whiterun.  The townsfolk were collectively staring as he and Therion entered, and Farengar returned their looks with an icy stare.  

Ysolda and Hulda leaned together, speaking in hushed whispers.

“Farengar actually _left_ Whiterun!?” Hulda asked in surprise, always on the lookout for a tidbit of juicy gossip to impart to her patrons at the Bannered Mare.

"It's actually a romantic tale," Ysolda said with a small sigh, sparring a heartfelt smile at the wizard, despite his death glare.  "The guards say he rushed out in the middle of the night to find the missing Thane."

Hulda raised her eyebrows, looking impressed.  "Huh! Do you suppose they've made up since their quarrel in Dragonsreach then?"

"Hm, it's hard to say, isn't it?"

Ysolda and Hulda watched silently as Therion and Farengar discussed something outside the Thane's house.  The court wizard shook his head.  The Dragonborn, wearing his perpetual grin of mischief, leaned down to whisper something into Farengar's ear.

Whatever he said caused the court wizard to stiffen, then shove the Dragonborn into Breezehome, slamming the door shut behind them.

"Oh my," Ysolda said, her cheeks blossoming a faint red.

"They do seem to have quite the, ah, passionate relationship, don't they?"

 

* * *

 

"You conniving, _manipulative-_ I could kill you!" Farengar hissed, bearing down on the elf.

"Hold on, you may have already succeeded," Therion winced, putting a hand on his chest as he sank into the nearest chair beside the fire pit.

"It’s no less than you deserve," Farengar said with a merciless scowl.

"This is what a mer gets for asking a man for help?" Therion asked, giving him an absolutely galling look of innocence.

"Help? That’s how you ask for help?  Request I come inside and then threaten to 'give Whiterun something to _really_ talk about' when I decline?"

Therion only barely suppressed a chuckle rising in his throat.

"Right, now that you're here, help me out of my armor, would you?"

Farengar turned on his heel, heading for the door.

The mer sighed.

"Please?"

The way Therion said it, caused Farengar to stop. It hadn't been imploring or flowery, just sincere.

"Don't you have a housecarl for these sorts of things?" Farengar asked with an annoyed frown, moving beside Therion.  His eyes wandered over the inky armor, looking for the catches which seemed to supernaturally blend in with the material.

"Lydia?  We have an arrangement.  She comes by, but she doesn’t live here,” Therion said, turning to give Farengar a better view of the nearly invisible buckles.  “Even if I could adjust to the idea of living with a stranger, she seems none too fond of me, nor 'carrying my burdens', so we’re both happier.”

Therion listened as Farengar worked the straps loose, quietly cursing and pulling.

“Ward spells are much less cumbersome,” he said with a derisive snort.

“Oh, certainly,” Therion agreed, “If you enjoy armor that falls off at the worst possible moment.”  Robes were about as much protection as walking around naked in his opinion, but more importantly, light armor just looked sexier.  

Although, he rather liked the way robes looked on Farengar.  

They looked like they could easily be pulled open and slid off the wizard’s muscular frame.  Trapping his arms in the sleeves, as he pressed him against the wall.  Hungrily kissing his neck, while listening to his delectable moans.

He blinked, noticing Farengar was glaring at him.

Therion cocked an eyebrow in silent question, wondering if he had noticed the almost certainly blatant lust in his expression.

“If you can’t maintain a _simple_ ward spell, then I suppose dressing like a common foot soldier would of course be preferable,” the wizard replied, and Therion could hear he had struck a nerve about his choice of attire, and also that he was as oblivious as ever.  He was slightly disappointed, part of him hoping the mage might notice his lingering gaze.

“Or,” Therion said, taking offense at the 'common foot soldier’ remark, “Perhaps you prefer robes, because buckles are simply too complicated?”

    He hissed as Farengar hitched his shoulder strap free with unnecessary roughness.

    “Sorry,” the wizard said unapologetically, “That last strap was rather _complex_.”

    Therion glared at him, the look dissolving into begrudging amusement.  

He was in no condition to seduce anyone with his freshly mended ribs, so perhaps it was just as well Farengar missed his looks and advances.  He couldn’t even remove his own armor without effort and his chest was already violently aching once again as he wiggled free from his chest piece.  

He was about to make a parting remark about wards and slip away to make himself a healing draught when Farengar quirked his head a bit, studying him.  Without explanation he took a knee, held out his hands, and healed him.

Therion sat up in surprise, the pain in his chest subsiding.

Farengar, by all accounts, the most absent minded professor in the realm, oblivious to all outward signs of expression, seemed to know exactly when he was in pain.  And each time, he thoughtfully spared Therion his pride.

    He could feel the radiating warmth of the Nord’s hands even from a short distance.  Combined with the heat of the fire pit, the ever present chill of Skyrim which clung to his body, was chased away, leaving him feeling relaxed and safe.  A burden lifted from his shoulders he had not known was there, as he felt at home and at peace.  A feeling he had not had since before he had left Alinor, years ago.  

Watching the mage work his magic, he closely admired his expression of absolute concentration, so achingly close.  

Without thinking, he let his eyes slide closed, and he leaned forward, pressing his lips against Farengar’s.

The Nord’s lips were divinely warm, warmer than any he had ever known.  Inhaling, he smelled fresh snow, pine needles, and the faint scent of smoke and fire with a hint of sweat.  He felt a delicious, light-headed feeling course through him, as if he had consumed the perfect amount of Summerset Mead.  For a moment, he was lost.  Consumed in the scent and feel of him, and the feeling building inside his chest.

Abruptly, his mind caught up with him.  His last conscious thought leading up to that moment had been an intense desire to ruin Farengar’s picture perfect concentration.  Now, he was realizing the mage would react any moment.  Breathing in, he memorized the moment, his essence, and knew he would have no regrets.

Farengar broke away, his face blank with utter shock.  Staring at Therion, he struggled to collect his wits.  For a moment, he saw a flash of something, raw and vulnerable, before his eyes turned hard and he rose to his feet, walked away, and left Breezehome without a word.

Therion ran a hand through his short hair.

“Well, that went about as well as I expected,” he said with a deep sigh.

Farengar’s expression still fresh in his mind, he stood and retrieved the blue mountain flower from his pack, a bittersweet feeling hanging over him.  Grinding it up in his pestle, he boiled water within his alembic, adding a drop of red dye, unable to tear his mind from Farengar.  His look had been unmistakable.  Therion had seen it too many times to miss its significance.  

Old pain.  

Someone had hurt the court wizard.


	11. Diplomacy

Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward in his throne, listening intently as his court wizard recounted the atrocities he had witnessed within the Thalmor compound.  He could hear Dagny and Frothar running and playing in the war room, shouting with carefree innocence, while Farengar described the sick child he had healed within the Thalmor dungeon.  His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened.  The sound of steel on steel rang through his mind, tantalizingly real, as he longed to take up his sword and taste Thalmor blood.

    As Farengar fell silent, Proventus jumped in.

    “My lord,” the flustered Imperial implored, watching the Jarl nervously, “We mustn’t be rash.”

    “I will not sit idly by while the Thalmor torture and slaughter my people!” the Jarl said, his voice rising louder until he was shouting.

    Proventus licked his lips, sweating under his angry gaze.

    “Yes, but this is a delicate matter.  If we send troops against the Thalmor, you’ll-”

    “Be committing an act of war against the Empire!” Balgruuf finished with a roar.  “And what would you have me do?!  Nothing?”

    “No,” Proventus said hurriedly.  “But this matter might be better handled by the General.  If Tullius finds a solution, Whiterun won’t be a target for both the Thalmor and the Empire.”

    Farengar leveled a glare at Proventus with the full weight of his loathing.  Proventus always wanted to play it safe, everyone else be damned.  He had never hated his cowardice more than at that moment.

    “Please,” Proventus entreated, “Shouldn’t we at least _speak_ with the General before committing the hold to an act of war, my lord?

    The Jarl said nothing, his face intent with consideration.

    Farengar’s hands tightened into fists.  The jarl only hesitated when he was about to choose a course he didn’t want to.  

    The door to Dragonsreach opened, interrupting the tension in the room.

    Jarl Balgruuf lifted his head, nodding to the visitor.

Farengar glanced over his shoulder and, after seeing the Dragonborn, returned his gaze back to the jarl.

Therion walked up beside the wizard, dressed simply in a white shirt, the slacks of his armor, and his Akaviri dai-katana at his waist.  He glanced at the wizard who was firmly ignoring him.  Not that it looked any different from how Farengar normally acted.

    “Dragonborn,” the jarl greeted him, “It seems Farengar was able to find you then.  We’ve been discussing other matters at present.”

    “I imagine so,” Therion said, glancing at the strained expressions of the court.  “It’s a pleasure to be back in Dragonsreach.  It’s only been a week, but it feels like ages since I was here last.”

    The jarl smiled.

    “We certainly saw a lot more of you on your last visit,” he said good-naturedly, referring to Therion’s infamous half-naked departure.

    Therion smiled back.

    “I’m glad you remember,” he said, receiving several confused looks.

Moving his hands to his collar, Therion slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, eliciting a gasp from Proventus at his impropriety.

The Imperial stammered something unintelligible, as Therion withdrew his arms from the sleeves of his shirt, letting it fall around his waist, where it was tucked into his leather leggings.

He suppressed a shiver as he stood bare chested for all eyes to see in the Great Hall.  The flickering torches cast enough heat for a Nord, but not nearly enough for an Altmer, let alone a half dressed mer.

Ondolemar had done a good job on the scars, if the looks he was receiving were any indication.  He bitterly missed his body being unmarred, but pushed the thought out of his mind as soon as it surfaced.  He had no place for regret in his life.  Besides, scars were sexy.  He could make do.  

He wondered if that thought would have made Ondolemar laugh at his vanity, and wondered how his cousin was doing, somewhere out there, in an increasingly volatile Skyrim.

“As you can see, some things have changed since we saw each other last,” Therion said.

“Th-this is highly inappropriate!” Proventus stammered.

“I agree,” Therion said darkly.  “As we speak, there are Nords chained in dungeons, who look,” he swept a hand across his gruesome torso, “Like this.  And worse.  I think something ought to be done about it.  Don’t you, my lord?”

“But the Empire-!” Proventus began.

“Is busy looking for a new Emperor, perhaps even one with a pulse,” Therion snapped, losing his temper, his words reverberating with his thu’um.

Proventus shrank back a step.

“I can assure you as an Imperial Legate, General Tullius won’t dare hold Whiterun accountable for taking up arms against the Thalmor.  And even if the Empire dared turn its back on this hold, Iwould show them the _gross_ error of their ways.”

His amber eyes were dark with promise.  

“Enough,” Jarl Balgruuf said.  “Irileth, gather your men,” he said, rising from his throne.  “We’re going hunting for Thalmor.”

“Yes, my lord,” Irileth said, her face stern as ever, but a smile alight in her red eyes.

“As it happens,” Therion said in feigned casual interest, “I’ve come across a number of Thalmor camps in my travels.  Most on the way to Solitude, where I hear the moot is being held.  Perhaps I might escort the Jarl and his court to their destination?”  

A slow smile spread across the Jarl’s face.

“Of course.  We couldn’t refuse the escort of Whiterun’s most accomplished Thane,” Balgruuf said.

“And should the Thalmor mistake us for bandits, we would of course, regrettably, be forced to defend ourselves.  And free any Nords held captive in their camps,” Therion said with feigned innocence.  “And once we reach Solitude, perhaps we could pay the Thalmor Headquarters a little visit, for diplomatic reasons, before going to the moot.”

“Two birds with one stone; kill some Thalmor and go to a boring meeting.  Well, at least we’ll have some fun while we’re there.  Let us discuss things further in the war room,” Balgruuf said, grinning with the anticipation of battle.

“With pleasure,” Therion said, replacing his shirt, his gold skin covered in goosebumps.  He still hated the cold passionately.  Balgruuf and Therion turned and headed up the stairs to the war room, while the court wizard departed in the opposite direction for his laboratory.

“It looks as though they did quite a number on you,” the jarl said in a warm, sympathetic tone. “How long will it be until you recuperate?”

“Auriel only knows,” the court wizard heard Therion say bitterly.  “I’d be dead, if it weren’t for Farengar.  He saved my life.”

“Really?  He didn’t mention it.”

“Probably because he regrets it,” Therion said with a jovial laugh, and Farengar could feel his gaze on his back as he left the Great Hall.


	12. Fire Light

Therion stirred the crackling bonfire, watching the jarl take a drink from his flagon, before giving an order to Irileth.  She nodded respectfully, slipping away from the light of the fire and into the night.  The rest of the jarl’s court, either slumbered peacefully or drank with one another, making boisterous banter.

The Dragonborn inched closer to the flames, constantly shifting to different sides of the fire, in a vain attempt to avoid the ever changing winds blowing smoke into his face, which seemed to be about every other minute.

Relocating to avoid yet another change in the wind, he settled cross legged next to the jarl, before scooting closer to the fire.

Through the flames, he could see one member of the court sitting further away from the rest. It was Farengar, drinking his mead alone, scratching notes into a book beneath the steady glow of a candle light spell.

Therion started as the jarl clapped his shoulders and slid closer to the fire.

“You two are still fighting, then?” he asked, following his gaze.

Therion looked around to ensure their conversation would not be overheard.  He could barely see the outline of Irileth, watching for any sign of danger from a shadowed outcropping.  The sound of Proventus snoring loudly from his tent, could probably be heard from Whiterun, Therion mused to himself.  The members of the guard who were still awake discussed amusing anecdotes, far from hearing.

Therion found himself smiling at the jarl, his strong, relaxed bearing reminding him of a mer he had admired greatly.  Lord Naarfin, the general he had served under during the Great War.

For a moment he was back in Cyrodiil on a warm spring night, staring up at the southern wall of the Imperial City, sitting shoulder to shoulder around a bonfire with the other members of the _Laloria Malatar_.

A sudden, chilling breeze caused him to shiver, a stark reminder that he was still in Skyrim.  He leaned closer to the flames, rubbing his hands together for warmth in a futile attempt to stave off the cold.

“Fighting?  No.  Arguing with Farengar is something I excel at,” he said with a grin, taking a deep drink from his flagon of mead.  The Nord beverage sent a wave of warmth throughout his body, relaxing his cold, stiff joints.

“What, then?”

Therion knew where others asked out of gossip, the jarl asked out of concern.  The well-being of his court and his people were close to his heart.  Therion silently wished Balgruuf was of a more long lived race.  His time as jarl would be over in what would feel like the blink of an eye, and then one of his awful children would be making a mess of Whiterun.

Therion’s eyes fell once more over Farengar, sitting alone in the shadows, illuminated in muted blue and gold under his light spell.  It seemed he was always sitting alone.

Therion leaned back on his hands, looking up at the shimmering aurora, glowing brightly against the night sky.

“I tried giving something other than fighting a try,” the mer explained with a small smile.

He heard the jarl chuckle, his blue eyes filled with amusement.

“Then you truly are as brave as the legends say.”

Therion laughed.

“Well, he didn’t light me on fire, which I took as a good sign, but he hasn’t spoken to me since.  I’m all but certain I struck a nerve… one unrelated to me.  Although, if I’m completely honest, part of me wonders if it’s,” he hesitated, absently stroking a thumb across his ear, “if it’s because I’m an Altmer.”

“Well... that might be part of it,” the jarl said slowly, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.  “Did he ever tell you about the time he was engaged?”

Therion choked on his mead, managing to cough out a, “ _No_.”

Balgruuf patted him on the back, laughing heartily.

“Caught you off guard, did it?  Well, he wouldn’t appreciate me telling you, so I wouldn’t go spreading it around,” the jarl cautioned, tossing another log on the fire, in a shower of sparks.  “It was some time ago, Farengar was just an apprentice then, studying under my court wizard, Nisain.  He had come recommended by someone or other from the wizard’s college in Winterhold.  Well, needless to say we were all caught off guard when my dark elf court wizard introduced us to his young, _Nord_ apprentice,” the jarl said nostalgically, pausing to take another drink from his cup.  “Farengar respected Nisain, you could tell by the way he worked himself down to the bone to impress him.  I never met Farengar’s father, but I gather their relationship is a fairly complicated one.  I think he saw Nisain as, if not a father, then something close to it.”

Therion frowned, the other foot clearly about to fall any moment.

“Nisain had a daughter, a lovely young dark elf woman named Dinere.  Well, Farengar fell for her, and he fell hard, hopelessly drawn to the elf.  Love at first sight.  It wasn’t long before he proposed to Dinere and she accepted.  However, Nisain…” the jarl trailed off with a sigh.  “He forbade Dinere from marrying a human.  Which surely hurt Farengar as badly as what followed.  Dinere obeyed her father’s wishes, breaking off their engagement.  Shortly after, Nisain accepted a position with the Mage’s Guild in Cyrodiil, and they left Skyrim.”

Balgruuf scratched his beard thoughtfully.

“Farengar was never outgoing, that’s just who he is,” the jarl added, “He prefers to be left alone to his books and research.  Since then, however, it’s fair to say he’s guarded his heart more closely.  He doesn’t trust anyone getting too close.”

Jarl Balgruuf finished his drink, stretching to his feet with a groan, Therion watching intently.

“You and I should hit the hay, we have an early date with some more Thalmor in the morning,” he said with excited anticipation, firelight gleaming in his armor.

Therion tilted his head back to look up at the jarl.

“Why did you tell me all of that?” he asked curiously.

“A man should know what he’s up against,” the jarl said in a warm voice.  “And because I’d never have managed to convince my wife to marry a lout like me without some inside knowledge. Seemed fitting, to do the same for someone else.”

Therion watched him go in contemplative silence.  After the jarl had settled into his tent, Therion slowly rose to his feet, feeling tired and light headed from mead, but significantly warmer.  Reaching into his pack, he produced several thin, metal wires, and set to work creating trip wires within his tent.  He was feeling decidedly paranoid about surprise, late night, Thalmor visits.

Although, perhaps paranoia was the wrong word for it; after all, you were only paranoid if no one was out to get you, and he knew first hand how far the Thalmor would go to get their hands on him.  If they succeeded a second time, Ondolemar might not be there to soften the blow.  So he settled for setting traps to wake him in the event an invisible agent slipped into his tent, trying to convince himself it was safe to sleep.


	13. Drem Vodahim

    Farengar felt his teeth grind together, his ears ringing with the deafening roar of politics.  He tried to distract himself from the seemingly unending, banal discussions by staring resolutely into the crackling hearth at the center of the room, focusing intently on the fiery coals.  Morning light had bathed the room when they had begun.  Now the the sky outside was dark, leaving only the blazing hearth to illuminate the room.  Skyrim’s rulers, eight jarls and their respective courts, bathed in its warm, red glow, casting long shadows across the walls and their tattered banners.

    “I understand what’s best for Solitude,” Erikur droned on, touting his financial ties within the city, speaking with a self-important air.

    Farengar suppressed an exasperated sigh threatening to escape from his throat.  The moot had not even _begun_.  They could not reach that spectacular level of tedium until they first selected a new jarl for Solitude.  A feat which had proven too difficult for its own court.

    He let his gaze drift around the room, glancing at each of the court wizards in turn.  A mere five in total, due to three of Skyrim’s holds eschewing the office. Their expressions clearly mirrored his own inner boredom.  

A common trend from all gathered, he noticed, was to cast curious glances toward the Dragonborn, who was seated between Irileth and Proventus.  Against his better judgement, Farengar let his eyes wander to Therion.  

There was something markedly different about the elf the last few days, which was in no small way related to his appearance.  Normally, he avoided any form of armor which obscured his face.  However, sometime before they had reached Solitude, Farengar had watched him cover the lower half of his face with a mask and pull his black hood low, concealing himself entirely.  A strange gesture from the vain elf.

    The effect was an unnerving one.  Therion’s body seemed to vanish into shadow unless one’s eyes remained locked on him at all times.  He could no longer be distinguished as an elf, just a tall, undefinable figure with unreadable intent, following the court of Whiterun like a dangerous shadow.

    Farengar was roused from his thoughts by Bryling interrupting Erikur in a commanding voice.

    “This godsforsaken war has divided our people and destroyed our land.  If we’re to have lasting peace in Skyrim, we need a ruler in Solitude who follows the proud traditions of our fathers, with more on their mind than lining their pockets.  I would lead this city with _honor_.”

    Erikur glared at her, long standing hatred in his eyes, and Bryling returned the look in kind.  The animosity between them was not slight; it was the kind grown from years of being at one another’s throats in close quarters.  There was no doubt that one wanted the other dead with an equal enthusiasm.

    “Brynling’s obsession with honor and tradition is… _quaint_ , but politically irrelevant,” Erikur replied.  With this statement, the two of them were off, launching into yet another argument.

Farengar desperately wished he were anywhere else.  Perhaps in the jaws of a dragon.

    Jarl Brina Merilis, the Jarl of Dawnstar, interrupted the thanes’ quarrel.

    “Why don’t we try letting someone else speak.  Gain an outside perspective on matters.”

    Her tone was authoritative, leaving little room for argument, the old woman’s background as an Imperial Legate clearly evident in her posture and clipped words.

    “Yes,” agreed Jarl Kraldar.  The Jarl of Winterhold thoughtfully stroked his white beard adding, “I’d like to hear the Dragonborn’s thoughts on the matter.”

    All eyes swept toward the dark figure seated at Whiterun’s corner of the table, a quiet hush falling over the room.

    Farengar could feel tension mounting, as the moot watched the Dragonborn, silent and foreboding.

    Finally, a hoarse breath came from beneath his dark hood, followed by another,  before breaking into a loud snore.

    Farengar involuntarily snorted, quickly covering his mouth to hide his expression.

    Jarl Balgruuf gave Irileth a meaningful look, and the dark elf forcefully kicked the leg of Therion’s chair with her iron boot.

    The Dragonborn looked up, raising an eyebrow at Irileth.  Farengar thought he could see deep shadows beneath his eyes, though it was difficult to tell.

    The housecarl leaned over, whispering something sharply in his ear. Therion’s reply seemed to amuse her, her face and reply taking on a softer quality.

    Turning to face the gathered rulers of Skyrim, Therion glanced from Brynling to Erikur before declaring, “Neither.”

    Aside from a loud, “Ha!” from the crone Jarl Idgrod of Morthal, the rest of the assembly seemed underwhelmed by his terse answer.

    “Neither?” Jarl Kraldar pressed.  “If you were a citizen of Solitude, whom would you prefer to rule?  Surely you have an opinion.”

    Jarl Siddgeir sneered, chiming in with an arrogant chuckle.

    “The Dragonborn clearly has no perception of what’s at hand.  The elf just wants to go back to sleep Kraldar, let him.”

    Farengar’s gaze snapped back to Therion, searching for a reaction, but his expression was hidden beneath his mask, his amber eyes remaining neutral.

    “The Jarl of Falkreath is quite correct,” Therion said amicably toward Jarl Siddgeir.  “I was having a marvellous dream and I wanted to return to it.  Alas, I am awake now.  If it would please this council, I will give my opinions, inconsequential though they may be.”

    Therion’s gaze flicked to Erikur.  

The Nord, dressed in expensive blue robes and furs, looked disdainfully back at him.

    Though the Dragonborn addressed him simply, his question was anything but, and it caused an immediate stir.

“Why do you think Jarl Ulfric killed High King Torygg?”

    Erikur looked taken aback.

    “That is a preposterous question which has nothing to do with this meeting.  I will not answer it,” he said reproachfully.

    Therion turned to Bryling.

    “And you?” he asked.

    “Many condemn the Stormcloaks, but I refuse.  There is honor in fighting for what you believe.  Jarl Ulfric did what he thought was right,” Bryling said without pause or hesitation.

    “So,” Therion began, addressing the moot, “On the subject of the most disastrous event that Skyrim has known in recent history, we have a potential jarl who refuses to speak on the matter, and another who, although speaks with admirable convictions and virtues, has no deeper insights into the matter, which tore the country asunder.”

    The elf leaned forward, looking around for someone.

    “Sybille,” Therion called, looking all the way to the back of the room where the court wizard of Solitude sat.

    Farengar recognized the thin, striking Breton from their brief interactions in the past.  She looked remarkably unchanged, though it had been many years since their last meeting.

    “Why did Jarl Ulfric kill High King Torygg?” Therion repeated.

    Sybille’s reply was unwaveringly direct.

    “Because Ulfric wanted Torygg to declare independence from the Empire.”

    “And why did Torygg never declare independence?” Therion asked knowingly.

    This time her answer was still direct, but also passionate, her respect for the deceased high king clearly evident.

“Because the Dominion is a sleeping beast that Skyrim cannot slay alone. Because many Nords are part of the Imperial army, even now. Because the food and resources we get from the Empire are important to our people. Because even if we can't openly worship him, Talos the God was once Tiber Septim the man, and this is his Empire. And Torygg wasn't ready to let it fall apart."

Therion leaned back in his chair, addressing the moot once more.

“If you want Solitude to have a jarl who will bravely rush outside to fight anything which threatens Solitude - before ascertaining if it is, in fact, an enemy - then choose Thane Bryling.  If you want Solitude to flourish financially, choose Erikur.  He’s an opportunist and a cunning businessman.  Ask either the Stormcloaks or the Imperials he sold weapons to during the civil war.”

A jolt ran through the room, as many of the jarls regarded Erikur with unfriendly scrutiny.

    “If you want Solitude to endure, choose Sybille.  She’s the only one in the court who bothers to look at more than one side of an issue,” Therion gave the the Dunmer housecarl beside him a wry look.  “And now I swear to do my utmost to stay awake.  Apparently if I snore again, Irileth will not hesitate to send me on a more permanent venture to Sovngarde.”

    There was a murmur of interest, while Erikur turned red in anger.

    “This is mad!  She’s a wizard!  And not even a Nord!” he shouted.

    The court wizards of Skyrim regarded Erikur with dangerous looks, as did all the non-Nord races, while the Dragonborn fixed him with his own cold expression.

    “I am a mer.  And a mage.  Does that mean I don’t care about the future of Skyrim?”

    Erikur raised his finger accusingly at Therion.

    “You implicate me of treachery and now you twist my words!  I’ve had enough!” he growled.

    Therion started to wonder how far Erikur would take the insult to his pride, when to his surprise, Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward and stared the other man down.

    “Choose your words carefully, Thane Erikur.  I do not take threats made against my court lightly.”

    Erikur, looking around the room, finally sensed the tide turning against him, and lowered his hand.

    “Perhaps it’s time we put things to a vote,” Jarl Balgruuf suggested.

    The vote passed with six in favor of Sybille and two in favor of Bryling.

    As the moot finally adjourned for the evening, Therion slipped away, vanishing into the crowd.

Farengar, eager to leave the crowded room, departed the Blue Palace and emerged into the night air of Solitude.  The jarls had lodgings in the Blue Palace, the guards in Castle Dour, while the rest of the various members of the courts had lodgings at the Winking Skeever.  There was a moment as he left, that he thought he heard the sound of a tile shifting, coming from the roof of the Blue Palace, but he saw nothing as he looked up, and the sound vanished before he could locate its source.  Shrugging it off, he slowly walked back to the inn with the rest of the departing crowd.

    Farengar finally returned to the inn ahead of the rest of the delegates, but was surprised to see Therion seated in a back corner, sipping a drink and looking as though he had been there for some time.  Giving him a bemused look, Farengar went to the bar to order a pint and dinner. The bard, a lovely Bosmer girl named Sina, finished the last notes of a jaunty tune and announced her next number; a personal variation on _The Dragonborn Comes_.  Farengar glanced over to the titular character. The slow, soothing tune appeared to have a lulling effect, causing the Dragonborn to nod off as the bard plucked her lute, singing of his exploits in a voice sweet as honey.

    “ _Our hero, our hero_

    _Claims a warrior’s heart.”_

    Farengar watched as several Nords seemed to recognize the slumbering Dragonborn.  The wizard frowned as they walked unsteadily over to him, surrounding the elf in the corner.

    “ _Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin,_

    _Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!”_

    Farengar walked over swiftly, telling himself it was merely to ensure the thane of Whiterun wasn’t robbed or disgraced. From the way they stumbled and snickered, there was no mistaking their drunkenness.  Before he could intervene, one of them swayed forward, grabbing hold of the Dragonborn’s Akaviri dai-katana at his waist.

    Farengar staggered as he heard, and felt, Therion’s frenzied, resounding shout.  In a blur of movement, the patrons before him scattered, thrown back, along with a table, and several chairs.  Farengar saw Therion press the Nord whom had grabbed his weapon into the wall by the neck, reaching for his sword with his free hand, seemingly unaware of what he was doing.  Lunging forward, Farengar trapped Therion’s wrist, preventing him from drawing his sword, while wrenching him away from the choking Nord. The man dropped to the floor, coughing and gasping.  

From the time Farengar had first found his magicka as a boy, he had been fighting.  He had been in more fights than he could remember. Children twice his size had gone out of their way to attack him, adults cheering them on.  He had learned early on, out of necessity, how to trap an opponent quickly.  Despite this, he had a difficult time keeping the elf under control.

Therion struggled against him as if his life depended on it.  The wizard, pushing his advantage, pinned his arms while pressing him into a corner.

“ _Dragonborn_ ,” Farengar said sharply, seeking to calm the frantic elf before he could wrench himself free or shout him apart.  The title had no effect, and Farengar’s stomach turned as he looked at the struggling elf, whose eyes were stricken with terror.

“Therion,” he tried instead, adopting a softer tone.

Farengar felt him slacken, and repeated his name several times until he ceased his struggles.  

Looking up, he could clearly see the deep, dark circles around the elf’s eyes, as he watched him peer over his shoulder at the rest of the room, drawing deep breaths to calm himself.

Amber eyes swept back down to Farengar’s sea green, and then down to his hands, still pinning Therion’s arms to his chest.

Farengar released him, stepping away.

The patrons were looking warily at the Dragonborn, the mood in the air tense, until he stumbled a bit unsteadily, bending down to help up the men he had knocked down with his voice.  They stumbled to their feet, and Therion stumbled with them, clapping a hand on their backs, while ordering them drinks from the bar with a friendly laugh.

Therion politely declined drinking with them, saying he’d had quite enough, and tripped a bit, draping an arm over Farengar’s shoulders for support.

Farengar looked at his arm and then back to the elf.

“You’re not actually drunk,” he whispered quietly, ensuring no one else could hear.

Therion leaned his face unsteadily against Farengar’s hood, whispering into his ear, Farengar suppressing a shudder as the warm elf rested against him.

“No, but they don’t need to know that,” Therion said quietly.  “They’ll forgive a drunken Dragonborn more easily than they will a panicked Altmer.”

“Mmm,” Farengar said, not disagreeing.  “The point I was trying to make, is that you don’t actually need to lean on me for support.”

Farengar heard a chuckle from beneath his mask.

“No, but it’s much more convincing, isn’t it?  Help me upstairs and I’ll make it worth your while…” Therion murmured.  “I’ll teach you to speak some in Dragon.”

The wizard paused, considering.

“Against my better judgement, I accept your terms,” Farengar said.

He helped Therion walk, the elf stumbling along as convincingly as if he were actually hammered.

“Which room?” Farengar asked at the top of the stairs.

“Don’t have one.”

“What?  We’ve been in Solitude for days, where have you been sleeping?” Farengar asked, opening the door to his room, adding, “Or, more to the point, not sleeping.”

Abandoning the drunk act, Therion nimbly sprang to his feet as the door clicked shut.  Crossing the room, he fell face down onto the large bed with a contented sigh.  Rolling onto his back, he kicked his boots off and placed his hands behind his head.

“By all means, please, make yourself at home,” Farengar said sarcastically, dragging a chair beside the bed.

“If you insist,” Therion said with a chuckle.  Pulling down his hood and removing his mask, he grinned up at Farengar from the bed.

“It’s not my place to judge a man for wearing a hood.  But why the mask?” Farengar asked, wondering how he had wound up with the Dragonborn in his bed.  He would have thrown him out, but the tired look in his eyes, combined with the fresh memory of his terrified struggle against his grip, made him sympathetic.  Therion had looked genuinely scared for his life.

The elf shrugged.

“The people we rescued from the Thalmor were panicking at the sight of an Altmer.  I decided to cover up a bit, lest my face make someone faint.  More than usual,” he said with an impish grin followed by a yawn.

Farengar frowned.

“Don’t fall asleep in my bed,” he warned.  “I don’t want to get my head taken off for waking you.”

Therion ran a hand across his face, trying to sort out the muddled memory from downstairs; waking up to find three figures looming over him, taking his weapon from him.  It was all a blur after that anyway, ending with him in a corner, surprisingly pinned by Farengar.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had heard his name.

Therion sat up suddenly, looking concerned.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?  Downstairs, when I...” he trailed off.

Therion was surprised by a faint smile gracing Farengar’s lips.

“No, you were easy to subdue,” Farengar said, embellishing the truth. “Even though I supposedly couldn’t hope to overwhelm you, ‘if I lived a hundred years’?”

Therion gaped at him, before grinning in surprise.

“I did say that, didn’t I?  That was weeks ago, I’m surprised you remember,” he chuckled.

“I have an excellent memory.”

“ _Vahrukt_ ,” Therion said.

“Pardon?” Farengar asked.

“Memory.  _Vahrukt_.  As I recall, I promised to teach you Dragon.  I can give you the basics of pronunciation and a wealth of words, but grammar is something I’m still unraveling.  It’s a largely contextual language.  The alphabet contains thirty-four characters.”

Therion launched into a pronunciation of the alphabet, watching contentedly as he was immediately rewarded with the familiar light of excitement in Farengar’s eyes, so foreign against his perpetually cynical expression.

Farengar was a quick study and an attentive student, absorbing information like a sponge.

“ _Vir saag_ you _ko Dovahzul_?” Farengar asked, sometime into their lesson.

“How do you say ‘you’ in Dragon?” Therion repeated in Tamrielic.  “You… don’t.  Not exactly.  It’s implied contextually,” he explained with a deep yawn.

Farengar considered his explanation, looking for a phrase he could try.

“Hm… _Hin nis praan?_ ”

Therion raised an eyebrow, astounded he had remembered so many words.

“I would take your meaning as, ‘You’re unable to find rest or sleep.’  To which I would reply, _geh_ , or yes.  Is there any limit to your memory?”

“Of course,” Farengar said.  “There are, for example, a few alchemical ingredients I cannot remember all of the effects of.”

“A few… out of the hundred plus ingredients in Skyrim?  Each with multiple effects?  Making hundreds of properties to memorize?  That’s astounding!”

Farengar seemed to ignore the complement, glancing at the window.

“It’s getting late,” he said regretfully, aware they had somewhere to be in the morning.  He would have preferred to continue their session.  The sooner he slept, the sooner morning would come and the moot would convene.   _Divines_.  He could only hope it would only take days, not weeks, to choose a king or queen.

Therion nodded, rolling out of bed and retrieving his boots.

Farengar couldn’t resist asking, though he suspected he wouldn’t like knowing the answer.

“Where will you sleep?”

“Oh, I think on the rooftop between Bits and Pieces and Radiant Raiment.  A bit cold, but better than waking up to a pile of corpses at my feet, and the guards chasing me out of town.”

Farengar paused, before leaning forward.

“If you’re having nightmares, I can brew a potion which would let you sleep-”

“ _No_ ,” Therion said quickly, eyes wide.  Farengar thought he saw him tremble.  “No,” he repeated, more to himself than Farengar.

Farengar felt his heart wrench once more, at the look in his eyes.

“When did you last sleep?” he asked.

Therion shook his head and tried to smile.

“I catch a few hours here and there, in public places.  The Thalmor wouldn’t attack me in a bar.  It’s just not their style.  And even with a location spell, if your target is above or below ground, pinpointing is difficult.  And on rooftops, I don’t have to trouble myself with finding an exit,” he said brightly, but his smile was strained. “I haven’t slept for more than one or two hours at a stretch since Riverwood,” he paused, considering whether or not to say more.  “I can’t tell you how relieved I was, to see you there, when I woke up.  I didn’t know where I was, I could barely breathe.  My heart was about to stop, until I saw you.  Sleeping beside me, in what appeared to be the most uncomfortable chair imaginable.”

He wasn’t good at saying ‘thank you’, and Farengar would probably be uncomfortable hearing it, so he hoped his words conveyed his meaning and left it at that.

“Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Therion stood and padded toward the door.

“Why did you choose me?”

Farengar’s question stopped him.  He turned to face the wizard, arching an eyebrow.

“You could have gone with Tullius, Brynjolf, the mad jester, Delphine, the creepy child… you know, I’m regretting being associated with this group of individuals the more that I list them off.  But back to the point at hand; why choose me?”

Therion sighed, wondering how best to answer the question, and decided on a half truth.

“ _Hin voth... Zu’u mindok drem, lingrah vod vodahmin,_ ” he said, with a warm smile.  Someday Farengar would put the words together, with that indelible memory of his, but not tonight.   _With you I know peace, long since forgotten_.  “I feel safe, when you’re around,” Therion offered by way of explanation.

Farengar sighed.  When he phrased things in _Dovahzul_ he felt his resolve waver.  Privately, he wanted nothing more than to listen to the exotic words roll from his lips in that wonderful voice.

“You can stay, if you wish.”

He almost regretted saying it, from the incredulous expression the elf gave him, tinged with optimism.

“As long as you remove all of your weapons, you may remain... and so long as sleeping is _all_ that you do,” he added emphatically, implying that he would throw Therion out of the room in a heart beat.

The Dragonborn smiled, setting his sword on the table beside the wardrobe.

“That’s fine.  I’m too tired to do anything more than cuddle anyway,” he said.

Farengar frowned at him, which only made him laugh and smile in earnest.

“I’ll behave and keep my hands to myself,” he said, adding his bow and arrows to the table.  Farengar watched Therion draw a pair of hidden daggers from his belt.  And then from his boots.  And then his sleeves.  He watched in fascination as the pile of weaponry on the table grew.  By the time he was done, Farengar counted no fewer than ten hidden daggers.

Finally, he slid off his armor, cast a lightning ward on the door as a precaution against any late night visits, and wordlessly slipped under the blanket on the bed.

Farengar blew out the candles, removed his shoes, and laid beside him, on top of the blanket.

“Don’t trust me?” Therion chuckled, shifting under the cover to lie on his side, facing Farengar.

“Yes, although that’s besides the point.  The cover makes me hot.”

“Mmm,” Therion replied sleepily, mumbling, “such a Nord.”

Farengar stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting.

“Dragonborn?” he asked, receiving no response.

“Therion…?” he tried instead.

“Hm?” came the half-asleep reply.

“Would you be willing to teach me more _Dovahzul_ tomorrow? After the moot?”

“ _Edahraal_ , sure,” he said, reminding himself of Paarthurnax with his repetitive speech pattern, softly adding, “ _Pruzah vulon._ Good night, Farengar.”


	14. Rugged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are at the end of the chapter.  
> The song the bard sang in the previous chapter was taken from the brilliant and talented Malukah’s cover of The Dragonborn Comes on Youtube if you’d like to hear it for yourself.

    Farengar stirred, halfway between sleep and consciousness, suspecting it was morning.  He heard the distant, muffled sounds of people leaving their rooms and exchanging greetings, confirming his suspicions.  Cracking his eyes open, he blearily tried to marshal the energy to rise.  He preferred late nights spent in quiet, uninterrupted research.

    The sound of incoherent mumbling made him alert, as the Dragonborn beside him began to murmur quietly in his sleep.  Farengar turned his head, listening to his unintelligible whispers in silent curiosity.  Several words, odd and exotic, rolled off his tongue.  Though he could not say with certainty, they sounded Altmeris, interspersed with _Dovahzul_.

    " _Nu..._ _ae na_ ... _baene cendre.  Aure... Frul Bron_."

    Therion’s murmurs grew softer, replaced with even breaths.

The Altmeris sounded pleasant to Farengar’s ears; subtle and refined.  Its appeal was completely different from that of the ancient, ominous _Dovahzul,_ although Therion’s voice could add a charming quality to any language.  Words fell from his lips with a natural poise and grace, much like the elf himself.  

Farengar stared at his parted lips, entranced despite himself.

He cursed his perfect memory, as memories of their first kiss replayed in his mind, recalling every detail with maddening clarity.

Swinging his legs out of bed he hurriedly put on his shoes, dispelled the rune on the door, and left, shutting it loudly behind him.  

Outside of the inn, he let the crisp, cold air of Solitude wash over him.

“ _...you can barely keep your hands off of me…”_

Therion’s voice played in his mind, clear and real as the night he had been tricked into drinking that damnable love potion.

    Frowning at his traitorous memory, he tried to think of something else.

It was to no avail.  The elf was still there in his mind - _grinning_.

Futilely, he chided his memory, silently ordering it to leave him in peace.  As usual his mind ignored him; he had little to no control over the way it behaved.  It stored and recalled vast amounts of information on a whim, occasionally moving too fast for him to keep up, and he had a puzzling time explaining it to anyone who asked what he meant.  For now his mind seemed to have centered on the Dragonborn and there was nothing he could do to distract it.

    He felt the memory of Therion’s breath against his ear.

“ _You’re actually quite handsome.”_

He made a sound of frustration and stomped off, startling the villagers around him.

They looked at each other and shrugged, as the grumpy wizard stormed off.

“Mages,” one said to the other, shaking their head.

 

* * *

 

    Therion awoke to the sound of the door slamming.  He looked at it nonplussed, before a slow smile crept across his lips.  Rolling out of bed with a low chuckle, he dressed in his armor and set to work hiding daggers about his person, still feeling tired, but more relaxed than he had in weeks.

 

* * *

 

    “Gods, what a relief.  I thought we’d spend the whole week choosing a jarl for Solitude.  At least that much is behind us.  Tell me, Dragonborn, what did Irileth say when she woke you yesterday?” Balgruuf asked Therion curiously, looking over at his dark elf housecarl in the distance.  Delegates were trailing in, as Therion, Balgruuf, Farengar, and Proventus milled around outside with the guards from their hold.

    “That if I embarrassed us by falling asleep again she wouldn’t hesitate to run me through,” Therion explained.

    “And what did you say?”

    The elf chuckled.

    “I’m going to hold you to that.”

    Balgruuf laughed heartily, while Farengar silently left to join Irileth, already at the table.

    “All in all, yesterday wasn’t so bad,” Therion said, grinning at the jarl from beneath his mask.  “The look on Erikur’s face was delightful.”

    “Damn fool,” Balgruuf said with a grunt.  “Threatening my thane and the Dragonborn, no less.  I would have liked to see him try and fight you, in those fancy clothes of his.”

    “Hm.  I could try and rile him into it later, if the day starts to wear on,” Therion suggested sarcastically, “Give us something special to remember the moot by.”

    Balgruuf grinned, then noticed Falk Firebeard, the steward of Solitude, ushering everyone inside to begin.

    They all took their seats as Falk closed the door and took his place with the court of Solitude.  Therion noticed Erikur’s now-former housecarl, the Altmer wizard Melaran, sat in Sybille’s old seat as court wizard.  The mer looked quite pleased with his new station.  Therion knew he’d had little love for his old employer, who had merely been a means of ‘paying the bills’ as he had once told him, while offhandedly mentioning Erikur’s seedier business practices.

    Irileth leaned over, speaking to Therion in a whisper.

    “If I notice you nodding off-”

    “Yes, yes,” Therion interrupted good-naturedly, quietly whispering back, “I’ll meet my death at the tip of your blade.”

    Irileth gave him a look of mild annoyance.

    “Interrupt me again and you _will_.  I’m going to help you stay awake today.  If you nod off, I shall wake you discretely.”

    Therion raised his eyebrows.

    “Thank you,” he said honestly, though slightly perplexed.  He added, “Yesterday you were quite adamant that I not disgrace the jarl in front of the moot.”

    Irileth looked at him with her stern red eyes.

“Farengar spoke with me.”

    Therion blinked in surprise.

“He pointed out that I should extend you some leniency,” she said solemnly, giving him a hard, and perhaps protective, look.  “If you absolutely must sleep, I’ll rouse you if you begin to snore.”

    Therion looked toward Farengar, but the mage was already trying to tune out the meeting, staring resolutely into the fiery coals of the hearth as he had the previous day.

    “Before we may begin,” Sybille said from the head of the table, “Urgent news has reached our ears this morning.  Late last night, the Thalmor Embassy was razed to the ground.”

“Ha!” Jarl Idgrod said, in an otherwise silent room.  The rest of the jarls expressions remained solemn.

    Sybille cleared her throat before continuing.

    “This is one of but many Thalmor buildings which were struck in the past week.  Escapees from various Thalmor prisons returned home, tortured to near death, to the horror of their families, inspiring these rash of attacks,” she looked across the table and met Therion’s eyes, “This, combined with growing outrage over the rumored abduction and torture of Skyrim’s Dragonborn, has sparked unruly mobs across the country.”

    Therion sighed uncomfortably.  Closing his eyes, he grabbed the buckles of his armor.  At least he’d be able to say every ruler in Skyrim had seen him undressed; he would almost certainly be the first mer in history to be able to make that claim.

    Jarl Balgruuf raised a hand, stopping him.

    “It is no rumor.  My court wizard, Farengar, retrieved my thane from one of their prisons.”

Therion gratefully removed his hands from the catches of his armor.  He didn’t mind exposing himself, but he despised the looks of pity and revulsion.

“While there,” Balgruuf continued, “he saw first hand those tortured or left for dead by the Thalmor.  I am told General Tullius, also bore witness to these atrocities.”

    Sybille nodded before addressing the room.

    “Overlooking for now that the Thalmor may seek vengeance upon Skyrim for being driven out of the country - a matter best left for the next high king or queen to contend with - I must consider what’s best for Solitude.  As we speak, any remaining Thalmor are fleeing for the safest borders; Cyrodiil and Morrowind.  However, those trapped here in the northwest are turning to Solitude.  Leaving us the last bastion for the Thalmor and making us a target for every angry mob in the nation.  I’ve increased the number of guards on patrol and for the time being, the Thalmor within Solitude have been ordered to remain inside their headquarters and not venture outside.  None of them wish to risk traveling all the way to Cyrodiil in the current political climate.  If the Summerset Isle decides to send a ship to retrieve their agents, it won’t reach Solitude for a month at least.”

    Sybille paused, looking around the room.

    “What we decide to do with our Thalmor guests will have dire consequences.  Given the overwhelming evidence of their barbarity committed against Skyrim’s people, I would prefer to try them for their crimes.  But as this country has just been through a civil war, I don’t wish to stir the sleeping giant that is the Aldmeri Dominion, least of all before Skyrim’s ruler has even been crowned.  I will hold off putting any Thalmor to the axe.  For the time being.”

    The room was silent, everyone absorbing the meaning behind her words; war between Skyrim and the Aldmeri Dominion loomed on the horizon.  

    “In the interest of hurrying along these proceedings,” Sybille continued, “I move that we begin nominations.  That said, Solitude nominates Jarl Balgruuf for High King of Skyrim.”

    The Jarl of Whiterun kept his face neutral, but Therion could tell he wasn’t thrilled at the nomination, though neither was he surprised.  Balgruuf’s expression grew more somber as the Jarl of Dawnstar echoed Sybille, naming him.  Slowly, the jarls cast their votes all of them throwing their lot behind Whiterun.

    Only Jarl Maven Black-Briar paused, giving a languid look at the assembly.

    “In Skyrim,” she said, leaning lazily back in her seat, “The powerful make the rules.  Might makes right, as they say.  Who will the Dragonborn follow?”

    All eyes turned to Therion.

    Irileth groaned and kicked his chair.

    “Balgruuf!” The Dragonborn shouted, startled and sleepy.

    Farengar’s mouth twitched as he fought to hide the smile playing on his face.

    “Riften nominates Jarl Balgruuf for High King of Skyrim.”

    Only Balgruuf’s vote remained.  Therion watched the jarl hide away his displeasure.  When he addressed the moot, it was with the conviction and bearing of a high king.

    “As Jarl of Whiterun, I nominate myself High King of Skyrim.”

 

* * *

 

    Proventus was over the moon, arranging meetings and scheduling for Balgruuf’s coronation.  The eager Imperial seemed to have all of Balgruuf’s affairs well in hand, while the jarl himself appeared to be busy accepting the praise and congratulations of countless people, thanking each of them solemnly.  Skyrim was in good hands.  Therion only wished he could say the same for his own people.

He slipped away from the crowd, following after Farengar.  The wizard had a head start on the mer, and Therion had to cheat just to keep sight of him.  Bypassing the staircase entirely, he swung himself over the rail and dropped to the first level, nimbly rolling to his feet and making his way to the great doors.  Outside he found the streets densely packed, forcing him to duck and weave through the crowd.

For a moment, he lost sight of the wizard.

Eagerly searching through the sea of bodies, he caught a glimpse of Farengar’s blue hood, only to lose track of him yet again.

Emerging from the Blue Palace’s courtyard, Therion hoisted himself atop the stone wall, peering over the crowd.  He smiled, spotting Farengar in the distance.  Running along the connecting wall to the second story of Thane Bryling’s house, he deftly leapt up and grabbed the edge of the roof before lifting himself up.  Racing silently across the tiles, he hopped nimbly between the corner gaps, steeling himself when he came to the separation between the house and the Bard’s College.  

A wide grin spread across his face, as he was reminded of days long past.  He could still picture the great, glittering streets of Alinor city stretched out before him, filled with the aromatic smell of flowers blooming beneath Auriel’s crystal statue in the late spring.  

The fondest memories of his youth were spent chasing Talamagne and Ondolemar across gleaming, crystalline towers and through impossibly high ramparts, trying to keep up with the older mer.  They had always seemed one step ahead; a little taller, a little faster, a little stronger.  He pushed himself hard to make up for his difference in age, trying to prove himself.  They were always leaving on errands, with no guarantee of returning safely; he wanted to be there with them, watching their backs.  He wistfully recalled Ondolemar chastising him after he broke his ankle on a particularly nasty fall. Talamagne had pantomimed behind his stern cousin, making him laugh, and feigned a look of innocence when Ondolemar turned around.  He missed the both of them terribly and wondered how Talamagne faired back in Alinor.  He could only hope he was well.

He focused his attention on the building before him.

The hewn stonework of Skyrim did not possess the same breath-taking, hypnotic beauty of mer architecture, but there was something about its solid, indomitability that made it appealing in its own right.

Vaulting across the gap, Therion grabbed hold of a wooden stanchion, heaving himself up and into the covered cloister of the Bard’s College.  He made his way to the edge of the walk, where he spied Farengar unexpectedly turn and run flat out.  The wizard flew up the stairs, heading toward the secluded edge of the Bard’s College that overlooked the towering cape.  

Therion frowned, wondering what had caught his attention.  Sprinting back the way he had come, he circled around through a short cut.  Silently rounding the corner, he approached the amphitheater and spied a group of men holding and beating Solitude’s court wizard, Melaran.

“Damn Thalmor,” growled a huge, dark haired Nord, apparently the leader of the mob.  “Your kind don’t belong here.”

“For the last time!” Melaran shouted angrily, struggling against the two men holding him, “I am not a _Thalmor!_ ”

Therion glided closer, moving behind a pillar and blending into the shadows.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Farengar demanded, marching up to the men. Electricity came crackling to life in his hands.  “This is the court wizard of Solitude!  Unhand him at once!”

The mob looked unimpressed.  Three of them approached the Nord wizard while leaving the other two to hold Melaran.  Therion silently resisted his first impulse, which was to bury arrows into each of their backs.  Instead, he wordlessly cast a spell, watching the familiar shimmer of invisibility spread across his body.

“Why the hooded robe?” one of the Nords asked in a derisive grunt, the three of them circling Farengar.  “You a witch-elf, too?”

Without warning, the large Nord lunged forward, ripping Farengar’s hood down from behind.  Farengar spun around, taking advantage of his attacker’s hands being on his hood and not by his face.  He swung his fist hard, causing the man to release him, clutching his nose in his hands instead as he staggered away.  The other two rushed Farengar as their friend cursed loudly about his broken nose.  Neither had a chance to do any damage as Farengar released the electricity held in his hands, causing each of them to scream and collapse, writhing on the ground.

Melaran’s alarmed shout caused Farengar to look up.

The two remaining Nords held Solitude’s court wizard precariously through the stone framework, threatening to drop him from the towering precipice overlooking the Karth River.  

Farengar lowered his hands slowly to his sides, concerned eyes glancing carefully between Melaran and the three angry men picking themselves up around him.

Melaran’s bewildering, upside down view of the bay made his veins run cold with terror.  He started in confusion at the sensation of being embraced by strong, invisible arms.  Looking up, all he could see were the hateful stares of the Nords holding him.

“They deserve to die,” the blonde said, glaring at him, “All of them.  After what they did to my son!  To Ullen’s daughters!”

Melaran took one look into their cold eyes and knew they were going to drop him.

“ _ZUN HAAL VIIK!_ ”

For a terrifying moment after he heard the shout, he thought he was falling.  

The hands gripping his arms and shoulders involuntarily released him, as the men staggered beneath the weight of the shout.

At the same moment, Melaran saw the invisible figure encircling him appear, hauling him back to solid ground.  Melaran, driven by adrenaline, gripped the dark figure back with crushing force until he was safely upright.  As soon as his weight was back on his own two legs, he sagged, his body trembling.  

Therion gently lowered him to the ground before straightening up and turning his eyes, bereft of emotion, on the men before him.

He could hear their murmurs of “Dragonborn”.  With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled his hood down, putting his pointed ears and gold skin clearly on display against his black garments.  He glared meaningfully, daring them to attack.  

The guards, long overdue, finally appeared and made their arrests.

Melaran was escorted back to the palace, leaving Therion and Farengar alone in the amphitheater.

“ _Zun, haal, viik_ … Weapon, hand, defeat?” Farengar asked curiously as he replaced his hood, shrouding his face once more.

“A shout to disarm and stagger my foes,” Therion explained.  “I couldn’t pull him up, with both of those men holding onto him.”

Farengar nodded.

“I see now, why you’ve been wearing a hood and mask as of late.  The masses can’t tell the difference between a Thalmor and a high elf, much less a Nord wearing a robe,” he said disdainfully.

They continued talking as they left the amphitheater and returned to the main road.

“For a robe-wearing, magic-wielding wizard, you sure can handle yourself in a fight,” Therion said with a whistle.

“I am a quick study.  And growing up in Skyrim was nothing if not educational,” Farengar said.  Anyone could have a strong body, in his opinion (and often did, in Skyrim at least).  A cunning mind was a far more valuable weapon.  He thoughtfully added, “Do elves distinguish between magic and physical prowess, as Nords do?”

“It’s different,” Therion said with a shrug.  “Magic is as natural as breathing, to my kin.  So no mer would underestimate someone just for being a mage.  However, I wouldn’t exactly bet gold on a mer wizard in a fist fight either.  Scholars tend to be soft.  Present company excluded, of course,” Therion said with a fascinated glance.  “I wonder,” he smirked, “How well you’d handle me?”

The wizard snorted.

"I already pinned you once, or had the mighty Dragonborn already forgotten?"

"I let you win," Therion said with a roguish grin.

"I doubt that," Farengar replied. "Or do you perhaps mean you didn't have the opportunity to cheat with your _thu'um?_ "

"So, my _thu'um_ is cheating?” he asked, his voice filled with mischief.  “What about magic?"

"You may feel free to make use your magic," Farengar replied, cracking his knuckles with a faint smile. “If you wish to test yourself against me again someday.”

    “Well, I am nothing if not irreverent.  Perhaps I’ll try it sometime, when you-” Therion shimmered and vanished, pulling Farengar’s hood back, “-least expect it,” his disembodied voice finished.

    Farengar experimentally swung a fist toward the sound of his voice, his hand passing harmlessly through thin air.  He could cast Detect Life, but it was more rewarding to win without it.  On a hunch, he spun around and swung again, his fist meeting air once more, but this time it was accompanied by the sound of quick shuffling and Therion cursing under his breath in surprise.

    “That one almost got me,” Therion’s whisper fell on his ear, a hair’s breadth away.

    “I missed you on purpose,” Farengar replied with deliberate arrogance.

    “ _Liar_ ,” Therion whispered.

    Farengar chuckled despite himself.

    “Why would I want to give such a handsome elf a black eye?”

“Handsome?” Therion laughed. “Appealing to my ego to win?  Not that I mind; you flatter me.”

Farengar snorted in mild disbelief.

“I can scarcely imagine anything flattering you.  My country literally sings your praises.”

“While I enjoy the attention of the bards, I prefer the praise of the more cunning and intellectual.  From someone scholarly and perhaps stubborn.  Preferably dressed in blue, and…”

Farengar felt an invisible hand grab his chin, while an arm encircled his waist, pulling him against a firm body.  

“... _rugged_.”

    Unseen lips pressed against his.  He tried to remain still, lest he look odd to people passing by, as Therion began deepening the kiss.  His rational mind wondered at what was happening, unsure what to think.  He could push the elf away, but he didn’t particularly want to.  Something bitter in his heart objected, saying it was too fast, undignified, and far too public for his taste.  Not to mention the mysterious elf had too many secrets to possibly be trustworthy.  But the feeling was postponed, as what was left of his rational mind thought, _oh gods_ , what was he doing with that talented tongue of his.

    Therion gently pushed Farengar backward into a small, private alcove, pressing him against a set of double doors, pausing to recast his invisibility spell before it could drop away. Returning his attention to Farengar’s lips once more, he kissed him hungrily, using his tongue in the way which seemed to please the wizard, while at the same time parting his robes and pressing a thigh between his legs.

The small moan which escaped Farengar’s lips was a delicious and slightly desperate sound.  It made Therion ache against his leather armor.

The mer broke away to whisper in his ear once more, enjoying the effect it had on him.

“ _Anahlrii jah hon_ …” he breathed, knowing Farengar could translate the phrase, _someone will hear_.

Therion smiled wickedly as the wizard shuddered at the words.

Farengar was done holding still in case the eyes of the world fell on him, while an invisible man made sexual advances upon him.  He touched his magicka and disappeared into thin air, his illusion spell making a _crack_ unlike Therion’s stealthy magic.  He found the leather armor of Therion’s chest and moved his hands up from there, tracing the muscles beneath as he charted his hands along the unseen body.  Finding his face, he stroked with his hands until his thumb located Therion’s invisible lips, and he felt the elf move his mouth around his thumb.  Farengar let him suck on the finger momentarily before withdrawing it.  Then he brought it back to his lips, tracing them.

Therion parted his lips, letting him invisibly trace and explore his mouth, repeating his movement from before when Farengar’s finger finally entered his mouth.  Farengar roughly grabbed Therion’s chin, forcing him down into a ferocious kiss.  Therion could barely focus as he searched his pocket.  Pulling the correct key out at last, he nearly dropped it as he felt Farengar’s teeth graze his lower lip.

His invisibility broke as he opened the door and pushed Farengar inside.

The mage reappeared as Therion shut the door to Proudspire Manor behind them, and shoved Farengar up against it.

“So, who owns the house?” Farengar asked, his voice coming out as a murmur against the Dragonborn’s lips.

He felt the door lock behind him with a _click_.

“A handsome elf,” Therion chuckled, pushing Farengar’s robes down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Therion's gibberish comes out in the form of several different tongues, because he dreams in multiple languages at a time. If you're curious, this is what he muttered (Altmeris constructed loosely from fan-made Reddit attempts to create Elder Scrolls languages):
> 
> Altmeris  
>  _Nu, ae na, baene cendre, aure_  
>  we, and, long time, important
> 
>  
> 
> Dovahzul  
>  _Frul Bron_  
>  Ephemeral Nord


	15. Impropriety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note
> 
> I made a grave mistake! The dragon language is DOVAHZUL, not DOVAHKUL. A minor distinction, but still. I like to be accurate. 
> 
> Also, I was surprised to discover that fans have actually created a Dovahzul to English dictionary. And it's in its third edition. Third! Anyway, for those of you interested in using the Dragon language in your own fanfiction, feel free to make use of this fantastic resource. www . thuum assets / Dovahzul%20Print%20Dictionary%203rd%20Edition . pdf
> 
> Found at www . thuum viewword . php?word=423
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! They keep me writing. I'm going to finish this story if it kills me.
> 
> Heads up! This chapter is 50% smut.

As Therion stretched his long legs across the bed, he found his toes brushing up against something hot. Calf muscles fully stretched, he paused, sleepily trying to discern what he was touching, and whether it was hot enough to burn.

After prolonged contact he recognized the smooth flesh of someone's foot beneath his own; someone with a core temperature drastically hotter than his own.

Therion absently ran a hand through his short, disheveled hair, drawing it back, before looking around with bright, albeit groggy, amber eyes.

The sight of fair flesh brushed with auburn hair came into view.

Farengar's bare chest rose and fell, his face peaceful and his eyes closed. The Nord wizard slept without a blanket as usual, having neither the desire or need of one.

Therion smiled, reaching out and tenderly running the back of his gold fingers across the warm, pale flesh of Farengar's arm. He stared at the rounded tips of the wizard's human ears in amused fascination, trying to memorize every detail of his body.

Out of all their differences, he mused to himself, he was most intrigued by Farengar's high tolerance to cold. Not only did this allot him full ownership of his superbly warm blanket - currently twisted comfortably around his own naked body - but it consequently granted him a wonderful view of the handsome, naked Nord.

His smile widened, considering another advantage.

Farengar awoke to a hand on his crotch and someone kissing his neck. He murmured in approval, adjusting his hips to allow a better angle for the talented fingers.

Therion tightened his grip around the hardening shaft, drawing his hand up, massaging the sensitive skin below Farengar's tip and sliding a thumb across the already wet tip.

The wizard shuddered as the elf worked him up and down, alternating pressure, massaging, building up a rhythm that left him breathless and made his eyes roll back.

Therion smiled inwardly, watching Farengar's reactions with satisfaction. The sight of his pleasure was erotic, sending a thrill through his body. Therion savored the low moan that erupted from deep within the Nord's throat.

Farengar, surprised by his own outburst, quickly silenced himself.

Grinning with determination, Therion began to bite and suck at the sensitive flesh of Farengar's neck, pausing at the base of his throat, he tightened his grip and quickened the pace of his strokes.

Farengar opened his eyes for the first time when Therion stopped abruptly, switching hands. He looked over the handsome elf - naked from the waist up - his blanket only covering him in the barest of senses.

Therion raised his hand to his lips while continuing to work Farengar with his offhand. Then, slowly he slid his tongue across the palm of his hand, giving Farengar a carnal look that made him ache with anticipation.

With a lick of his lips, he returned to using his dominant hand, pumping quicker, with slick motions that sent waves of pleasure through the Nord.

Farengar felt his body moving of its own accord, caught up in the rhythm of the elf's long, golden fingers.

Therion suddenly wrapped a hand behind his neck, trapping his mouth in a kiss. As the Dragonborn forced his lips apart, Farengar responded without thinking, caught up in the moment, he acted instinctively. His higher mind was pleasantly absent for once. Free of thinking, he found himself enjoying the stimulation without question.

Moaning into the mouth against his, he grabbed a handful of Therion's short, golden hair and luxuriated in the feeling of it, squeezed between his fingers. The elf smelled like leather and musk, with a hint of cologne. He gripped him close, wanting to bury himself in the delicious scent of him.

Therion roughly gripped Farengar's chin between his index finger and thumb, forcing the wizard's lips hard against his own with ferocious intensity. The elf's passionate desire made Farengar's stomach tighten with need. The elf devoured his lips feverishly, his long-fingered touch nearly wrenching another moan deep from the wizard's throat, but Farengar managing to just barely stifle it, as some incessant part of his mind surfaced, bemoaning the impropriety of it all. The prideful half of him agreed, while another part of him was tempted to say to hell with all that was proper and dignified.

Therion, meanwhile, forced his tongue across the other man's lips, moving suggestively of talents not yet explored. The elf's tongue moved in time with his hand, and he grinned against the wizard's lips as this time, despite his best efforts, a moan tore helplessly from the wizard's throat, his internal debate forgotten.

As he grew closer, Therion sped up his movements, tightening his grip, and causing Farengar to grunt and gasp as he abandoned himself to the pleasure of it, rutting against the elf.

Intense release washed over him all at once, the elf's wonderful touch driving him past the brink.

Farengar blinked, his conscious mind resurfacing as Therion broke away. He was still feeling euphoric but at the same time, slightly embarrassed. Or perhaps worried, was more apt a description. If word got out he'd had a one night stand with the hero of legend, was that potentially how he would be remembered by history? The court wizard of Whiterun, an easy lay for the flirtatious and polyamorous savior of Skyrim. Why had he gone through with it? A moment of weakness, surely. It had been a long time, he told himself peevishly. Additionally, the elf was obviously quite talented - and blatantly proud of the fact, Farengar noted.

Therion's smug grin caused him to scowl. Infuriatingly, this had its usual effect; causing Therion to smile all the wider.

"You look altogether too pleased with yourself," Farengar huffed, standing up and gathering his garments from the floor.

"Then we have something in common," Therion chuckled. He sat up sharply as Farengar approached the door. "Hold on!"

"What? Why?" Farengar asked. Startled, he looked around.

"My ward…" Therion began, but trailed off.

"There is no ward here," Farengar explained after a brief examination, cinching his robes. "I would have remembered you casting one last night. Your hands were otherwise occupied at the time."

Therion's merely continued to stare dumbfounded at the floor beneath his door.

"I always cast a ward," he murmured stubbornly, sounding thoroughly perplexed as he stood up. He took the blanket with him, swaddled up in it against the chill air.

Farengar shrugged and returned to rummaging around in search of the rest of his garments. Bending down, he retrieved his pants from beneath a desk. Placing a hand on the desk to steady himself, he pulled them on. A painting spread out beside his hand caught his eye.

Bright, fiery-red paint covered the canvas. Curious what could be so colorful, he leaned closer for a better look. The art was crude. It took him several moments to realize he was looking at an exotic tree with a trunk made of crystal or diamond, covered in leaves as vibrant as if the branches themselves were on fire.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of an artist," Therion said, just beside his ear, causing Farengar to jump in surprise. The elf could move as silently as a whisper.

"Evidently," Farengar replied, silently contemplating a way to keep Therion from sneaking up on him. Bells, perhaps. "Although, I find the colors quite striking."

Therion did up his belt, hiding two daggers in it.

"So do I," he agreed, Farengar wondering at his fascination for concealed weaponry. "I couldn't do it justice though."

Farengar quirked his brow, suddenly interested.

"There's a real tree? Like this?"

A look over his shoulder revealed Therion smiling in response, but something about it rang false. Farengar could all but feel pain, grinding like a dagger in the other man's chest. He had little interest, and even less talent, in reading people's emotions. But with Therion it was intuitive. Almost perplexingly so.

" _Molagleyes,"_ Therion said with what Farengar knew was false cheer, the elven syllables beautifully rolling off his tongue. "Or, _leyes_ , for short. They grow in Alinor. Their bark is solid crystal. Their leaves petals - soft, thin, and oddly enchanted. Just as mer hold magic in their bodies, so does our homeland. The plants, the trees, even the rocks and soil." he trailed off, looking nostalgic. "My home was surrounded by _leyes_ trees. When the sun hits the leaves, they burn with intense light, as if they're on fire. The effect is unparalleled."

Farengar almost felt empathetically home sick, staring into the painting and imagining the reality.

"Do they shed bark?" Farengar asked, eyes suddenly alight.

Therion laughed.

"Always the alchemist. Yes. And they're extremely useful in numerous potions. Most of the plants in Alinor are."

"I should like to see the Summerset Isle," Farengar mused, already eagerly imagining all new reagents to memorize in happy, academic anticipation. "The alchemy ingredients alone are enticing enough. What sort of libraries and colleges exist there?"

Therion shook his head and reached across him, turning the painting over, as though dismissing the idea. Farengar watched the brilliant red paint disappear, leaving the plain, white canvas in its place and the tiny initials ' _T.L_.' neatly scrawled in the lower right. Something seemed wrong about the initials. Therion's surname was Adamonest. They were faded, perhaps the A had lost some of its ink?

"Alinor isn't the safest place for Nords," Therion cautioned, his tone suggestion this was an understatement. "Or any race other than Altmer. And even then..."

"You mean the Thalmor?" Farengar asked, disappointment written across his face. Images of crystal bark samples and ancient tomes of magic faded away in his mind's eye. "Or the war on the horizon?"

Therion shook his head.

"It's more than that. Alinor is an isolated country - my kin don't accept foreigners easily. You could be arrested for fabricated crimes. Or attacked out of fear or hatred by the citizens," Therion said, frowning as his imagination went down darker paths left unsaid. He had seen more than his fair share of Thalmor handiwork in his long life.

Farengar recalled reading some accounts of travelers in the Summerset Isle, clearly oblivious of the protective look on Therion's face.

Therion privately wondered, as he often did, how Farengar could practically read his mind on some circumstances, but remained clueless to his every sign of outward affection. Pride and self esteem, apparently, did not go hand in hand.

"It can't be as bad as all that. I've heard of some foreigners reaching the ranks of nobility."

Therion brushed his fingers through his hair, wishing Farengar would let it go.

"There are several foreigners who have established themselves, yes… but with great dint of effort and financial connections. They remain close to the capital city and keep an Altmer nearby at all times, as a guide and body guard."

Farengar looked him over, considering.

Therion winced.

"Wait… I didn't mean _me_ ," he replied quickly.

"You would prefer not to mix company with a human, in the Summerset Isle then?"

"No!" Therion snapped, offended.

"Ah, I see. I'm sorry to have presumed you would be interested in traveling together," Farengar surmised. "Forget I mentioned it."

"What? Stop jumping to preposterous conclusions," Therion said with an irritated frown. Wrapping his arms around Farengar, he rested his chin on his shoulder.

"There's nothing I'd rather do, than take you there. You'd love it. And I miss it more than I can say," he said, a bit forlornly. "I just don't think it's likely."

Farengar craned his head around to look up at him with determination.

"You are, as you say, nothing if not irreverent. And Nords are not known for giving up," he said.

Therion smiled a little, feeling more like himself and less melancholy the more he looked into Farengar's resolute stare. Remembering home always made him a little uncertain who he was. There were few reminders, in Skyrim, and he had been away from home a long time.

"Besides," the wizard added, "I hear the Dragonborn is intent on waging war against the Thalmor. I doubt they'll be around for much longer."

This time the elf laughed, pulling him closer for comfort. The closer Farengar was, the more he remembered himself.

"Indeed. I'd hate to have such a 'handsome elf' like him for an enemy."

Farengar scowled, searching for a retort when he heard the familiar feral cry of a dragon erupt. Its scream shook the very walls of the house. From outside cries went up. " _Dragon! Dragon!_ "

"You have to go?" Farengar asked, looking toward the window with anticipation despite his last near fatal encounter with a dragon. Therion seemed nonplussed however, simply content to hold him close, ignoring the ear splitting cries outside from beast and man alike. Presumably from practice.

"No, the guards can handle it," Therion murmured, resting his face in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

Farengar quirked his head.

"What… really?" he asked in surprise.

Therion remained silent a moment before breaking into heartfelt laughter.

" _No_ ," the Dragonborn replied with a cynical chuckle.

Grudgingly, Therion pulled away, gathering together his weapons and armor.

" _DOVAHKIIN!_ " they heard a deep, booming voice cry overhead. "WE MUST _TINVAAK._ SPEAK."


	16. Infiltration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thank you for all the wonderful comments! Translations at the bottom. Please enjoy.

"Paarthurnax?" Therion wondered aloud, eyes marginally widening.

"An oddly grandiloquent name,” Farengar replied absentmindedly as he scanned the skies for the dragon circling somewhere overhead.

“This coming from ‘Farengar Secret-Fire’?” the mer asked with a chuckle, as he tucked in his white shirt and collected his armor.

After a moment of carefully listening, Therion paused, before drawing a deep breath.

“ _STENFAH!_ ”

His bellow shook the walls of the bedroom, nearly jarring Farengar into the window he was looking through.

Caught off guard, Farengar whirled around to face Therion, the source of the upset.  It was easy to forget that voice could contain so much power.  The half-naked Altmer dawned his enchanted armor as though nothing extraordinary had transpired, pouring himself into the perfectly fitted leather. Farengar watched him dress in the muted morning light, filtering through the high windows, as he pondered over that voice which felled dragons and brought men to their knees.  

Even half dressed, Therion looked impressive.  He was poised, muscular, and a literal breath away from unleashing that incredible power from between his lips.  For a strange and perplexing moment, Farengar couldn’t recognize him as the Therion he knew; that galling and mysterious elf who fascinated Farengar, often despite his best efforts.  This Therion was a stranger whom looked impossibly unreal.  Like a hero of legend from the old tales.

Invincible.

Reflexively, Farengar's eyes wandered over the jagged scars exposed above the elf's shirt.  A stark reminder of Therion's frailty… and his mortality.  He had the voice and soul of a dragon, but not the flesh of one.

Farengar tore his gaze away before Therion could notice.  He had seen him scowling quietly at his scars when he thought the wizard wasn't looking.

“Someone you know?” Farengar asked when Therion didn't explain his shout or who Paarthurnax was.  Disguising his jumbled and indistinct feelings of concern, he followed Therion downstairs.  

The elf was grinning broadly in what appeared to be delighted surprise.

“Do you remember when I told you I have one friend in Skyrim?”  Therion asked, before shaking his head and breaking into laughter.  “Who do I think I’m talking to.  Of course you remember.  You probably remember the herb I picked during the conversation.”

“Blue mountain flower,” Farengar supplied without hesitation.

Therion glanced over at the wizard in curious amazement.  Farengar’s memory never failed to astound.

“Well,” Therion said, pointing to the sky as he opened the door. "That’s him, there."

Farengar stared in wide eyed amazement, awed by the sight.  A large, gold dragon soared majestically overhead, circling the skies with ease and indifference for the many arrows whizzing past its body.

“You shouted something to him,"  Farengar said eagerly, his eyes keenly locked skyward as he spoke. "What did you say?”

Therion admired the spirit of excitement shining in Farengar's eyes. Dragons, herbs, magic - when presented by anything of scholarly potential, he suddenly became alight with enthusiasm.  Therion wanted to show him so many wonderful things and watch that light of intellect and discovery burn.  His expression softened as he realized the likelihood he would live long enough to do so was fantastically low.  Every day he lived felt like borrowed time.  A future with Farengar was a wonderful, albeit unlikely, dream.  He couldn’t help laughing out loud at the irony of it all.  A mer worrying about outliving his human love.  Ondolemar would probably chuckle at least a little, and he vowed to tell his cousin if they met again.

“A polite reply to his summons," Therion explained with a fond smile.  "‘On my way’, or something to that effect.  Paarthurnax has rigorously tried to explain the culture of the dov to me. Etiquette, especially.”

Farengar gave him a curious stare, perhaps tinged with jealousy.

“I’m trying to imagine you sitting on a mountain top, learning manners from a dragon,” he explained, sounding dubious.

Therion caught his meaning and sniffed a bit indignantly, momentarily looking every bit the stereotype of a haughty Altmer.  There were times, he mused, when Farengar’s preconceptions of adventurers could be tiresome. He didn’t enjoy being lumped into the 'adventurer' category as a whole.

“I’m highly educated in proper, refined behavior.  Both dragon and otherwise.  More often than not, I simply choose to ignore it,” Therion said with a private smile, cutting a quick path through town toward the market.  “I only stand on ceremony with Paarthurnax.  The exchange of greetings, for example.  The amount of thu’um in your reply is important.  Answering a dov with a weaker shout is submissive.  Whereas, shouting back with a greater thu’um is issuing them a challenge or insult.  Generally speaking, I’m outright rude to all other dragons,” he added with a chuckle.

Doing up the straps of his black, Nightingale armor, he slid his hands through his leather gloves.  They left his fingers exposed - an invaluable asset for retaining manual dexterity.  Wriggling his fingers freely, he wrapped them around the Akaviri dai-katana hilt at his side, ready to face whatever troubles might come.

Paarthurnax landed at the same time Therion calmly strode across the town square, talons digging long gouges into the split-level stone pathway that met above the market and below the blacksmith.

The guards kept their bows drawn, but held their fire, watching the Dragonborn and the Dragon draw up to one another, gazes locked.  Farengar felt compelled to stay back with the gathering crowd, staring at the proud, weathered figure of the dragon as though spell-bound.

“ _Drem yol lok_.”  

The deep voice, ancient and powerful, seemed to come from everywhere; thrumming in Farengar’s chest like the beat of his heart, echoing in his ears.

“ _Drem,_ ” Therion replied, his amber eyes meeting slitted gold.

“There is urgent news of _arokon_ , trouble,” Paarthurnax said, his booming voice directed to Therion alone, his piercing gaze centered on the Dragonborn.  “The _Kirsfahliil_ , Altmer, have found a weapon.  _Modokar kroved sil zun._ ”

A commotion came from the back of the crowd, one Farengar remained unaware of until a Whiterun guard was ushering him aside to make room for a procession.  The Jarl, and soon to be High King, Balgruuf pressed past the circle of bodies formed around Therion.

“This is the second time you’ve brought a dragon into a city,” Balgruuf said in a rich, commanding voice. His bearing was remarkably calm, though he spared a glance toward some children hiding in the bushes to gape at the beast with fatherly concern.  “I assume you have as good of a reason now, as you did before, Dragonborn.”

A gout of smoke poured from Paarthurnax’s maw as he gave Balgruuf an intent look, taking notice of the crowd of humanoids for the first time.

“Who is this, that speaks as _kriisjor_ , ruler?” the dragon asked, his patient, articulate voice tinged with what might have been disapproval.

“Exactly that.  This is Balgruuf.  _Bronjun_ ,” Therion said with a smile, repeating the word in Tamrielic like Paarthurnax often did, “The Nord King.”

A rumble came from Paarthurnax’s throat.

“You are not _bronjun?_ ” he asked, sounding surprised.  “You are _Dovahkiin_.”

Farengar saw the hint of a smile on Therion’s lips.

“The politics of man are… nuanced,” he said with a sly half smile.  “You were talking about an Altmer weapon?  A thing of devastating power, which defiles souls?  However poor my grasp of _dovahzul_ , this bodes ill.”

“ _Geh_.  The _Krisfahliil_ have trapped the souls of dovah within a _Dilfahliil_ artifact.  The power unleashed is... _modokar_.  Devastating."  The booming bass voice of Paarthurnax cast a spell over the crowd of people, pressed in to listen, less interested in keeping a cautious distance.  "Through a _hanuheim,_ vision, I watched as stone and earth burned, turning to ash.”

The Dragonborn was the first to break the silence.

“Thalmor with dangerous Dwemer artifacts,” Therion said with a sigh.  “Just what we needed.”

A deep rumble came from Paarthurnax’s enormous throat as he leaned closer to Therion, inclining his head until his old, clouded eyes could see him clearly.  He spoke slowly, his low, booming voice, filled with bitter sorrow.

“The dov cry out on the winds in _faaz,_ pain.  They reach out in their _ahnak_ , agony.”

Farengar's chest tightened, Paarthurnax's voice wrenching empathetic sorrow from himself, and he surmised, the crowd as well.

“I’ll make the Thalmor regret their _akir,_ aggression,” Therion said with certainty, a dark glint in his eyes.

“ _Nox_ ,” Paarthurnax said, his tone grateful and intrigued.  “Though it may be simpler to let the _Krisfahliil_ , your kin, destroy the remaining dov... you still choose to intervene.  To save the dov from destruction.”

Therion nodded.

“Most swore loyalty to me.  And I’d rather see their souls in their bodies, than used as weapons by the Thalmor.”

Paarthurnax leaned back on his haunches and the Jarl, sensing a lull in their conversation, took Therion by the shoulder.

“Let us convene the jarls,” Balgruuf said, directing his guards to gather the rulers of Skyrim.  “You will join us, won’t you, Dragonborn?”

“Of course.  You know me,” Therion said with mock enthusiasm, “I just can’t get enough of these meetings.”

The mer’s eyes met Farengar's and he paused thoughtfully, then turned to address Paarthurnax.

“Stay awhile before you fly back to the Throat of the World, my friend.  I’ll buy you a goat,” Therion said grinning, motioning Farengar over with a nod.  “Allow me to introduce the Court Wizard of Whiterun, Farengar Secret-Fire.  An avid student of _Dovahzul_.  Perhaps you would indulge him some questions, in my absence?”

Farengar’s eyes widened.  A thousand questions formed on his tongue as he walked through the gawking crowd to stand beside Therion.  At a loss for words, he stared up into the gigantic maw hovering over him.

To his utter surprise, he heard a deep sound come from the dragon; a chuckle.

“ _Bek._ Very well,” Paarthurnax said. “His pronunciation cannot be more appalling than your own.”

Farengar felt weak at the knees.  Not only was a dragon going to converse with him, but now that Paarthurnax had begun to relax, he was actually joking.

“He’s a better student than I, though you may have to correct the poor habits I’ve taught him.  I’m sure by the next time we meet, he’ll be teaching me,” Therion said, savoring the look of absolute joy on Farengar’s face.  It was an expression he intended to treasure to the end of his days.  With a flourish, he bade them goodbye, paid the butcher for a goat, and left with Balgruuf and his entourage.

Farengar watched the massive dragon eat with fascination.  Engrossed, for once he paid no mind of the crowd gathering around him, their curious eyes fixed on him and the dragon.

Paarthurnax devoured his goat.  A process which took no time at all.

Once the ancient dragon had finished his dinner, he breathed a long gout of flame on the ground with a loud _YOL!_ and laid down comfortably on the warm stone.  With a content, and cat-like yawn, he looked the wizard over with slow, deliberate eyes.

“Tell me what words you know in our tongue, _jul_ ,” Paarthurnax said once he was satisfied with his examination.

Farengar’s fear evaporated at the opportunity to display his learning and gain more knowledge.  He listed off what he knew one word at a time, Paarthurnax regularly correcting him.  Therion, he realized in short order, had not been acting humble when he declared his pronunciation was nothing short of awful.

“Impressive,” Paarthurnax said, after he had finished.  

Farengar’s heart swelled at the complement so much he felt as though his chest might burst.

“Few _jul_ know this much.  What do you wish to learn from me, a _dov?_ ”

One phrase leapt to mind.

“ _Hin voth, Zu’u mindok drem, lingrah vod vodahmin,_ ” Farengar said slowly, repeating the words carefully from memory.

“Hmm,” Paarthurnax said, huffing thoughtfully through his snout.

Farengar, waited patiently, wondering if the pronunciation was beyond recognition. Many of the words he had learned from Therion had to be said in Tamrielic before Paarthurnax could recognize and correct them.  Therion had never gotten around to translating this phrase, and intuition told him he would simply act inscrutable if he asked him to repeat it.

“Hm.  Not bad, as poetry goes,” Paarthurnax said finally, thoughtfully shifting his torn, leathery wings.

“Poetry?” Farengar asked when the dragon didn’t elaborate, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

“He finally managed to pronounce something _nalgask_ , properly,” Paarthurnax said, and after a thoughtful pause, translated the phrase in his low, bass voice.

When he finished, Farengar stared at nothing.  His body felt numb and far away.  Even his perpetually racing mind was stunningly silent.

Therion had, in is his own inscrutable way, confessed his feelings.

_With you I know peace, long since forgotten._

Farengar grappled with the words for what felt like a very long time, then set them aside.

He could work them out later.

Perhaps it was a mistake.  Or, he was reading too much into it.  As the whispering crowd around him most certainly was, he noticed with ire.  And though it may have been his imagination, even the formidable figure of the dragon before him seemed to be looking at him with what might pass for intrigue.  Reading the emotions of a dragon was difficult.

He focused his attention back to their lesson, while his mind inevitably trailed back to what he was trying to ignore.  

Therion.  

Was he trying to tell him... He stopped the thought, cutting it off before he could finish it.

It didn't matter, he told himself.  

Sentiment, affection, devotion - they were all pure foolishness.  Pleasant diversions for a time, but painful when gone.  Love was the greatest lie of all, and he had no intention of falling for it a second time.

Given time Therion's infatuation would fade, and that was all there was to it.

Comforted with this thought, Farengar pushed Therion's words to the back of his mind and learned everything he could from Paarthurnax, the delight of new words replacing his agitation.

 

* * *

 

    Therion arranged his face to look interested and then let his mind wander as Proventus began to drone on about finances.  He had, at some point as a young mer, imagined Nord politics as infinitely more interesting than Altmer affairs of state.  Perhaps with men dressed in pelts, entering death matches in arenas covered in snow, to decide the rations budget in some kind of battle royal.  The corners of his mouth drew up as he imagined the pale, middle aged human steward locked in mortal combat over the cost of porridge.

    _Where there's politics, there are boring meetings,_ Therion lamented.  _Even in Skyrim.  At least there's mead._

    A tremor ran through his body, as his thin ears likewise detected the sound of wings.

    _And dragons,_ he added, feeling Paarthurnax's departure in his blood.  The sensation of another dov was a strange thing; like a tingle of lightning running through one's veins.  At moments like these he sometimes wondered if it was odd that he didn't find his powers strange in the slightest.

    _Pierce the veil of death and destroy a god, then suddenly you're jaded about everything_ , he thought with a silent chuckle.

    "Dragonborn!" Proventus huffed in irritation.

    "Yes?" Therion asked, raising an eyebrow.  Though his face was still carefully masked, he had obviously missed a question aimed at him while his focus had been on Paarthurnax's departing emanation.

    Proventus lowered his scroll to scowl at the elf.  

    "Are you paying attention?" he demanded impatiently.

    "No," Therion replied with galling sincerity and a charming smile.

    Jarl Balgruuf - High King Balgruuf, Therion amended mentally, though his coronation was a few hours away yet - made a noise which sounded suspiciously like choked laughter.

    "Honestly, sometimes I don't know why we include you in these meetings," Proventus snapped, fixing Therion with the full weight of his disapproving stare.

    "By all means don’t," Therion replied, jumping to his feet.  "I'll just be on my-"

    "Dragonborn."

    The High King's voice was neither demanding nor chastising.  It was a firm tone that asked for his help with such respect and reasonability that Therion found he couldn't refuse.

Sighing, he sank back into his chair.

    "Now then," Proventus said, eagerly tucking back into his scroll, quill dabbed with ink and ready to strike.  "The feasibility of an assault on the Summerset Isle by sea.  What are your thoughts?  If we could produce thirty war ships, what losses would you project?"

    Therion heard footsteps which immediately lifted his spirits before he even heard the door open, revealing the blue robed figure of Farengar.  Therion smiled and glanced up at Farengar as he passed.  The wizard ignored him as Therion expected, taking his seat and immediately tuning out the meeting to stare into the fire crackling away in the brazier at the center of the room.

    "Thirty ships sounds great," Therion said, leaning back in his chair.

    "Excellent," Proventus replied, looking at the next item on the list.

    "If you're trying to kill the Aldmeri Dominion with laughter, it will certainly get the job done."

    The steward grumbled and pursed his lips.

    "And how many would you recommend?" he asked in a tone only a displeased accountant could.

    " _None_ ," Therion replied, leaning forward.  "Alinor is an island country surrounded by sheer cliffs, nigh impossible to scale by invading forces.  Our naval force is second to none.  If by some miracle you defeated the navy, the country would simply turtle its defenses and wait your forces out till the literal end of their days.  It's an impenetrable fortress.  Feel free to add the ship budget to the porridge column," Therion added helpfully with a small grin.

    Proventus looked hopefully at the High King.

    Balgruuf sighed.

    "Don't add the columns, Proventus.  The issue at hand isn't that we've saved coin on war ships.  It's how to invade the Summerset Isle at all."

    "Of course!" the small Imperial replied indignantly.  "I simply wanted to move the funds into the miscellaneous section, carry the three, and there," he said, scribbling away furiously, intent on perfect accuracy.

    Therion found he had to admire Proventus’ dedication, however deplorable his tunnel vision.

    “Our priorities are out of order.  Preparing to invade will do us little good if we can’t first find out where their weapon is, discover how it works, and how to destroy it,” Jarl Merilis said, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the table.  “We’re completely in the dark.  We need to prepare a defense at the least.  What about sending out reconnaissance?”

    “You mean spies,” purred Maven approvingly.  “A grand idea.”

    Old Jarl Idgrod let out one of her cronish laughs.

    “Anyone have an Altmer spy lying around somewhere?  One that isn’t a double agent, hm?”

    Jarl Igmund rolled his eyes.  “Well?” he asked the room snobbishly.  “Isn’t it obvious?  Send the Dragonborn.  Skyrim doesn’t exactly have Altmer to spare.”

    His comment was met with grumbled annoyance.

    The newly appointed Jarl Sybille intervened.

    “The Dragonborn would be recognized in an instant,” she said in a remarkably diplomatic tone.  “And his strength may better serve us here.”

    Jarl Igmund snorted.

    “That’s the entire point, my dear.  Disguise him and send him to the Summerset Isle.  In the mass confusion of Thalmor evacuating Skyrim, one more won’t be noticed.  And no one could be a better fit for espionage with his powers.  If he were discovered, he’d surely have an easier time escaping than any other elf.  He could even disrupt things on the other side.  How do you invade an impenetrable fortress?  Why, have someone on the inside open the door for you.  Simple as that.”

    Therion didn’t know which aggravated him more.  The man’s sneering tone or the fact that he was right.  And the Jarl only half knew how right he was when he described Therion as a ‘fit for espionage’.

    Therion shook his head.

    “I’m too recognizable,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hands.

    Farengar looked up from the fire.

    “We could use magic,” he said.

    Therion scowled inwardly.  Of all the times he had to join the conversation, it would be now.

    “We could enchant a group of Nords to accompany you, disguised as Altmer.  They could follow your lead.  Infiltrate the country.”

    Therion frowned.  Farengar thought he was helping.  He was trying to give him allies to keep him safe and the ability to see his home.

    “ _No_ ,” Therion said firmly.

    Farengar’s eyes met his and the mage cocked a brow.

    “There are too many variables,” Therion explained.  “And I’d fail spectacularly at infiltrating Alinor, undercover Nords or not.”

    Farengar held his gaze in thoughtful silence as the room murmured.  Everyone was now in favor of sending the Dragonborn except the Dragonborn himself.

    Therion was grateful to hear a guard announce the return of General Tullius, sparing him any further comment.

    The General was welcomed in a fanfare of excitement, which quickly died to hushed whispers.  Therion tried to peer through the press of bodies behind him.  His delicate ears detected an odd metallic sound amongst the scrape of metal boots on stone.  It was the clinking of chains.

    General Tullius nodded respectfully to the assembly, then motioned to his guards.

    “Apologies for taking so long,” the white haired General said, removing his helmet.  “But I trust you’ll find my absence was worth the wait.”  

He looked at Therion as he spoke, to the mer’s confusion.

Therion watched the guards approach and realized there was a man at the center, hands chained behind his back.  He was hunched over.  An Altmer, barely able to stand, wearing ruined Thalmor robes.

“Head Justicar Ondolemar,” General Tullius declared.

Therion’s blood turned to ice in his veins as he watched his cousin be dragged forward.

“The torturer of the Dragonborn,” Tullius added in a severe, hateful tone.  “We kept him alive so his sentence could be carried out before this assembly.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Dov_ \- Dragonkind  
>  _Dovah_ \- Dragon  
>  _Stenfah_ \- advancing/on my way  
>  _Bronjun_ \- Nord King  
>  _Drem yol lok_ \- Greetings  
>  _Dream_ \- Peace  
>  _Kriisjor_ \- Anyone of high power  
>  _Arokon_ \- Trouble  
>  _Modokar kroved sil zun_ \- Devastate defile soul weapon  
>  _Geh_ \- Yes  
>  _Kirsfahliil_ \- Altmer, High elves  
>  _Dilfahliil_ \- Dwemer  
>  _Hanuheim_ \- Vision  
>  _Ahnak_ \- agony  
>  _Nox_ \- Thank you  
>  _Jul_ \- Human  
>  _Nalgask_ \- Proper


	17. Nisaad Viidost

Staring at Ondolemar in open surprise, Therion wished he had his mask on.  He stood quickly before the rest of his feelings could catch up and reveal themselves on his face.  The collective eyes of all Skyrim's leaders were upon him.

That was alright, he told himself.

That was good.  

He could work with an audience.  He thrived on attention.

Ondolemar hung limply in the grasp of two Imperials with a unit of guards surrounding him.

Therion eagerly latched onto the anger boiling up inside himself, letting the feeling slowly expose itself as a building fury.

Striding purposefully toward the Head Justicar, Therion felt the intensity of everyone's gaze upon him, as the room fell silent, all present waiting with baited breath.  The two soldiers blocking his path at the front of the formation looked uncertainly at him as he approached their prisoner.

Before they could decide how to react, Therion shoved them out of his way.

Grabbing Ondolemar's tattered robe, he bunched the material in his fists, pulling the mer up until their faces were even.  His cousin's face was dark with bruises and the sight further fueled Therion's display of fury.

The sound of Therion's short, angry breaths roused the other mer.  Ondolemar slowly opened his eyes and painfully raised his chin, straightening his shoulders and forcing himself to look up and meet the other man’s gaze.

"You," he said in a weak breath, tinged with surprise.

"Me," Therion replied in a smooth, dark voice, giving nothing away.  

The Imperial guards shifted awkwardly.

"Should- Should we stop him?" one whispered doubtfully, glancing furtively from the Dragonborn, to Ondolemar, to the General, trying to get a handle on the situation.

"Stop the Dragonborn?" replied another, their voice dripping with sarcasm.  "Why not?  We'll just call what's his name...  Oh right, Sven McDoesn't Fucking Exist!"

The mounting tension in the room was interrupted by the sultry tone of Maven Blackbriar.

"Now, now," she said, trying to persuade the Dragonborn from harming or killing Ondolemar.  "Think of all the secrets we can gain from our Thalmor captive."

Jarl Siddgeir let out an exaggerated 'pffft.'

"Just execute him and be done with it.  There are unruly mobs demanding his head on a pike," he said, indicating the distant sound of yelling from the windows.  "Give the people what they want.  It will be good for morale."

Jarl Merilis regarded Siddgeir with exasperation.

"That's detestable.  Put the man on trial," she said sharply, adding, " _then_ put an axe to the back of his neck."

"A trial?" Jarl Free-Winter said in disbelief.  "For the Thalmor's Head Justicar?  What would be the point?"

"He's still entitled to one," Merilis said rigidly.

Ondolemar craned his head to look at the arguing jarls with a wicked smile.

"Of course I'd be found quite innocent," the Altmer said with haughty sarcasm.  "You see, I'm actually a double agent.  Why, all I desire is peace between Alinor and Skyrim."

Therion made a show of violently shoving Ondolemar away, while in fact forcing himself to not laugh.  Damn him, he thought, he was trying to make him break his composure on purpose.

"Dragonborn," Ondolemar chided, regaining his balance along with the two Imperials holding an arm on either side of him.  "I've missed you, too.  I’m positively misty eyed.  Be a dear and wipe away my tears for me, will you?"

Therion held onto his composure only just, as Ondolemar quoted his own infuriating words back at him from their last encounter.  It wouldn't do to burst into laughter at the man who was supposed to be your torturer.  Well, he thought, he could spin the insanity angle if necessary, but it wouldn't be dignified.

"Let us find out what he knows," Maven said quickly, trying to forestall an angry retaliation from Therion in response to Ondolemar's jeers.

"Hmph," Ondolemar said with a distasteful sniff.  "I'd sooner die."

"Why choose?" Therion asked, removing a vial and setting it on the table beside him.  All eyes turned to examine the red liquid glowing in the tiny glass vial.  "A serum which loosens the tongue," Therion explained, adding with an evil grin, "The side effect is excruciating pain.  Followed by death."

The entire room gasped and Balgruuf motioned for Farengar.

Jarl Kraldar paled until his complexion matched his hair.

"You keep that on you, everywhere you go?"

Therion chuckled maliciously.

"I've been anticipating a reunion with the Head Justicar for some time now," he explained, giving the prisoner a dark smile.

Ondolemar snorted.

"An amateur tactic.  It's fake," he said, wrinkling his nose.  "Sugar water with moonberry juice, to give it glow."

Therion popped the cork.

"It's called _nisaad viidost,_ actually," Therion said.  Farengar poorly stifled a snort at Therion's use of the _dovazul_ , clearly used for his benefit.  "A poison left over from the Dragon War.  In truth, I don't know what it will do.  I've only read of the effects.  As an alchemist, I look forward to seeing them first hand."

"Your petty tricks do not scare me," Ondolemar said, daring him.

Therion approached, but Jarl Merilis intervened.

"Dragonborn," she cautioned in disapproval.

"Bring your so-called poison," Ondolemar sneered.

"The Head Justicar has made his choice," Therion said with a helpless shrug as he handed over the vial.

The moment Ondolemar consumed the drink, he gasped and clenched his teeth.

Therion stood cooly above him, arms folded.

"Where are the remaining Thalmor hiding?" he asked, his voice cold, watching as Ondolemar began to writhe.

Through clenched teeth, the words tumbled from Ondolemar's lips.  The assembly joined in, asking many questions of Thalmor plots and locations.  All the while Ondolemar struggled fitfully, his agony growing more pronounced.  Finally, he began to scream in pain and the guards dropped him, each taking a step back.  Therion continued to stand over him, like a menacing shadow.  A final agonizing scream tore from Ondolemar's throat, deep and powerful.  At the end of it, he lay still.

Jarl Blackbriar motioned one of her guards over who placed a hand to his neck.

"He's dead."

An awkward silence fell in the hall.  Therion could feel the weight of a stare and turned, meeting the eyes of the High King.

Sybille's newly appointed Altmer Court Wizard looked pityingly at Ondolemar.

"I'll make arrangements to return the body to Alinor," he said quietly.

"Clear the room," Balgruuf said, catching Therion off-guard as he spoke for the first time, dismissing the assembly.  His tone was authoritative, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. The High King stood and the jarls respectfully followed, along with the rest of the gathering.  "I would have a word with the Dragonborn and my court in private."

Therion remained behind, watching the jarls and their courts depart, until only himself, Irileth, Farengar, and Balgruuf remained.

The High King gave him an unreadable look, as he took his seat and rested his chin on his fist.  Balgruuf looked from Ondolemar to Therion.

“That was terrible,” Balgruuf said, thoughtfully tapping his cheek with an index finger.

Therion bowed.

“I apologize, my king.”

Balgruuf shook his head.

“I can not accept your apology.  Not for acting as poorly as that.  You there.  You can stop laying about on the floor,” the High King said.

Therion stared at Balgruuf with a solemn expression that slowly fell apart into a pleased grin, as he gave the Nord a look of respect.

In a flash Therion dove on Ondolemar and rolled him onto his back before tackling him in a tight hug.  Ondolemar remained motionless until Therion squeezed him so tightly, he was forced to let out a gurgle and cry out indignantly for him to let go so he could breath.

“If you don’t let go of me, you may _actually_ kill me Therion,” Ondolemar griped, trying to escape his embrace.

“An acquaintance of yours, I assume?” Irileth asked from beside Balgruuf.

“My cousin!” Therion exclaimed gleefully, pulling Ondolemar to his feet and dutifully retrieving a lock pick from the cuff of his sleeve.

“Pleased to make your acquaintances,” Ondolemar said, politely addressing the room in his usual eloquent tone of voice, as Therion picked the lock to his shackles.

“You put on quite a show,” Irileth said, looking doubtfully at Ondolemar.  “What was actually in that vial?”

“Sugar water and moonberry juice for glow, just as I said,” Ondolemar replied, Therion confirming his words with a nod.

Irileth snorted.

“And why all the secrecy?  Who are you?”

“As I told you earlier,” Ondolemar said, tearing off his tattered Thalmor robes and tossing them into the flames of the brazier.  “I am a double agent.”

“It was in our best interest to fake Ondolemar’s death.  The other jarls would want him dead regardless of who he is.  And he is far more valuable alive, I assure you,” Therion said, looking pointedly at Balgruuf.

The High King drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his chair.

“ _Nisaad viidost?_ ” he repeated.

“Literally translated, ‘fake poison’,” Farengar supplied.

Balgruuf nodded to himself, looking Ondolemar over.

“Can you discover anything else about this weapon the Thalmor intend to use against my people?”

“I think so,” Ondolemar said, casting a healing spell on himself as he spoke.  “There are several hiding places the Thalmor have across Skyrim close to Dwemer ruins.  With any luck, we’ll find something there.  Unless they’ve already moved the weapon back to Alinor.  In which case things become infinitely more difficult.”

Therion nodded in agreement.

“My cousin and I can map out the locations and head out by morning.”

They were startled by a knock from outside.  Without a word, Ondolemar clenched his fist around a ball of magicka, and vanished into thin air.

“Come,” Balgruuf called.

“Pardon the interruption, M’lord,” Proventus said respectfully as he opened the door a crack.  “The General wishes to speak with you and the preparations for your coronation-”

“Damn,” Balgruuf sighed.  “He needs to teach me that trick,” he said, looking through the invisible Ondolemar.  “Alright.  Let’s get this over with,” he said dismissing the room with a casual wave of his hand.

Therion lingered a moment longer, waiting for the room to empty.

“Yes, what is it, Dragonborn?” Balgruuf asked when they were alone.  Or, alone minus his invisible cousin, Therion assumed.

“How did you know?” Therion asked.

“That your friend was playing possum?” Balgruuf chuckled.  “Don’t worry, you were both very convincing.  I don’t think anyone doubts that the Head Justicar died here today.  I just know when to trust my gut.”

“Mhm,” Therion said dismissively.  “Seriously, though.”

The High King stared thoughtfully at him before sighing.

“There are few things I know about you, Dragonborn,” Balgruuf said slowly. “However, after what you endured, I know that you’d never let such a person as that, have a quick death.”

It was very slight, but Therion saw Balgruuf flinch as an invisible hand touched his shoulder.

“You’re going to make a great High King,” Ondolemar whispered from behind Balgruuf.

Balgruuf grumbled to himself, taking a long drink from his mead.

“Gods,” he said.  “It’s like having two Dragonborns.  Go on, both of you.  I have a coronation to prepare for.”

 

* * *

 

The celebration of Balgruuf’s coronation had been a regal, somber event. The party following, was anything but.

Farengar rubbed his aching temples.  His fingers were itching with the desire to cast a muffle spell.  It would be beyond impropriety, he reminded himself, taking a drink from his mead.  He visibly winced as a fight broke out, loudly destroying a table and some fine glassware.  The ringing sound of destruction was met with thunderous applause and laughter, which, although further hurt his ears, momentarily drowned out the terrible lute music from the Bard’s College apprentices.

Numbly, he watched Hrongar help up the man he had tackled into a table, the two Nords affectionately butting heads against one another with all their might.

It took Farengar a moment to realize he was grinding his teeth, the sound drowned out in the constant stream of unpredictable noises assaulting his senses.

Even the ever stoic Irileth was grinning broadly from ear to ear.  When she met with his scowl, she gave him a perturbed look.  He returned it in kind, with a pointed expression of displeasure which clearly read, ‘just because his presence was required, didn’t mean he had to like it’.

Irileth sighed at him with exasperation and joined Hrongar as he began regaling everyone with a tale of what Balgruuf was like when they were young.

Farengar drummed his fingers quickly against his cup in agitation, trying to ignore the dizzy feeling building in his head.

Slamming his cup down suddenly, he pushed himself away from the table and strode to the open window behind him.

The city outside was alive with merriment, and the sights and sounds reached up to the high window of the Blue Palace.  Solitude was crowded with people, dancing and singing, around merrily burning bonfires fires that illuminated entertainers and food vendors of all varieties.  Farengar listened to the sound of music and laughter drifting up from the streets below.  

Leaning against the window frame, he looked down, trying to feel something.  Despite his best efforts, he felt only boredom.  And a bit of isolation.

His eyes drifted up from the busy streets to gaze upon the stars above.  The Aurora was shimmering brilliantly, alight with stunning hues of green and blue.  Behind him the revelers roared, and below him townsfolk cheered, while he drank his mead in silence, staring at the stars.

He nearly dropped his cup when he heard Therion’s voice from outside the window.

“Having fun then, High Wizard?” Therion asked with a gentle chuckle, using the wizard’s new title.

Farengar spilled some of his drink, before recovering his composure.

“Of course...  I can barely contain my excitement,” Farengar said, leaning outside, looking for the source of his voice.

Therion was nowhere to be seen.

Farengar frowned disapprovingly.  The act of wandering around the rooftop of a state event felt horribly inappropriate.  Although, he admitted to himself, he was more disgruntled that he was suffering the celebration while Whiterun’s Thane was outside in the cool air, away from the suffocation and noise.

“What are you doing outside?” Farengar asked, squinting into the dark, the light around him making it difficult for his eyes to adjust.

He heard Therion’s usual, easy going chuckle.

“Come outside and find out.”

Farengar thoughtfully gripped the stone windowsill, appalled yet tempted.

Just for a moment, he told himself.

After a quick glance around the room to see that no one was watching, he pushed himself out of the window and onto the roof’s ledge.  

Farengar looked around, finding himself alone on the roof top.

“Up here,” Therion called from above, causing Farengar to look up.

His mouth hung slightly agape at what he saw.

Therion was shaping fire.  A vortex of flame twisted above him, whirling and spiraling like a tornado.

The tiles shook and rattled as Farengar carefully navigated the roof.  Climbing up to the flat portion above his window, he found Therion lying on his back.

Creeping carefully forward along the tiles, he joined the Altmer Dragonborn and sat down, the warmth from the flames above licking his face.

“Lie down.  The view will be better...” Therion suggested, sounding distracted, his face masked in concentration.

Farengar jerked back as the corners of the vortex exploded in brilliant sparks where Therion appeared to momentarily lose his focus.  Curious, he laid down beside the elf, looking up to see things from his point of view.  Farengar watched the flames spiral in arcs, creating a breeze of hot air tinged with the pleasant smell of smoke.  

Turning his head, he glanced over at Therion.  

The elf’s dark, leather armor was illuminated in orange-red light, the warm glow sharpening his already prominent facial features.  Farengar’s stomach tightened, taking in the sight of Therion’s gold skin and amber eyes, bathed in the vibrant firelight.  With careful, graceful gestures, Therion’s hands moved, shaping and charting the course of the flames.  Therion was almost as fascinating to watch as the fire itself, lost in the delicate balance of his work.  Farengar let his gaze linger, knowing Therion was too distracted to notice his stare.

Above them the vortex spun faster, catching Farengar’s attention.  The brilliant storm raged, forming into a pair of blazing wings, the air around them rippling with heat, as slowly, a figure emerged from the cyclone.  

 _A valkyrie?_ _Or a phoenix…_

Before he could guess, dark talons sliced through the air, and a beast covered in angular scales erupted in an explosion of hissing sparks.  

A blistering dragon made up of vibrant fire, only slightly bigger than himself, beat fiery wings and breathed deep.  The fire art looked unbelievably life like in its movements, breathing and moving as if its body had weight.  Exhaling a gout of flame, it let loose a silent, ferocious roar, then shot into the sky, exploding into a shower of embers as Therion closed his right hand into a fist.

Tiny embers drifted around them like snow, the glowing lights slowly winking out one by one.

Farengar inhaled, realizing he had forgotten to breathe.

Therion quietly folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes, a satisfied smile on his face. They laid side by side, the distant sounds of merriment drifting up from below, the suffocating party forgotten as they shared in comfortable silence.

Therion spoke just as Farengar began to suspect he might have dozed off.

“I could tell it was you in the window below,” he said with a smile, eyes still closed in peaceful repose.  “No one sighs at a party quite like you.”

“Hmph,” Farengar said with a quiet huff.  “And you skulking up here - directly above my seat - was pure coincidence, I assume?”

Therion flashed him a cocky half grin.

“I know how fond you are of social functions,” he said with a hint of mischief.  “I thought you might need someone to trick you into escaping, against your better judgement.”

“Speaking of,” Farengar said, eyes narrowing, “Why are you out here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Therion countered.

Farengar opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, amused despite himself.

“A fair point,” he conceded, “but it’s not every day that the Jarl becomes a King.”

Therion shrugged.

“Life’s too short to waste being unhappy for the sake of others.”

Farengar was inclined to agree.

“A strange sentiment, for an Altmer,” Farengar replied, sitting up and resting an elbow on a raised knee. "Elves usually think in the long term.  In my, admittedly limited, experience.”

“We do,” Therion agreed.  “But when you’ve manage to defeat, rob, kill, and piss off as many people, dragons, and gods, as I have," Therion trailed off thoughtfully, "You get a little philosophical."

Farengar snorted, giving him a look of skepticism.

"What?" Therion asked.

"You say far fetched things, tell these aggrandised stories, imply you've met the whole pantheon of Aedra and Daedra, act secretive-"

"Not _all_ of the Daedra. Thank Divines I've never met Molag Bal."

"Point being," Farengar said, interrupting him back. "You're aggravatingly mysterious. And smug about it."

Therion gave him a look of mock surprise.

"I am a picture of honesty and humility. What have I ever tried to conceal?"

"You instigated a war by staging your abduction!" Farengar declared incredulously, raising his voice.

"I did instigate a war, but I didn't stage anything. My cousin did abduct me," Therion said with a shrug, giving him a look of innocence.

"Then it was his idea to torture you?" Farengar said, his voice lowering angrily.

"No," Therion said, looking over the Karth River, feeding into the Sea of Ghosts. "I asked him to."

Farengar stopped, knowing he had struck a nerve.  The experience was probably a burden for Therion, and one which he seemed to prefer not to discuss from his clipped tone.

"Was that it then?” Therion asked.  “You simply don't believe I met some Daedra and are surprised that I decided to stage a war with my own country?"

That, somehow, was the tip of the iceberg, Farengar thought.  And how telling that was.

"Would the picture of honesty and humility mind telling me his real name?" Farengar asked with gentle mocking, thinking of the initials on the back of Therion’s painting.

The look of momentary surprise on Therion's face made him smile. He didn't bother asking how Farengar knew or denying it.

"I prefer Therion,” he explained.  “It suits me. I never cared for my given name."

“So you’re not going to tell me,” Farengar said, sounding disappointed.

“All in good time.  Perhaps moments before I die,” Therion suggested.

“That could be ages,” Farengar grumbled while Therion burst into laughter.  “I’ll be long dead by then at least.”

Therion shook his head.

“I’d bet I’m murdered long before you die of old age.  But it would be terribly inconvenient for me to collect.  As I said, I’ve upset a lot of powerful people.  Which, coincidentally, is why my name is such a sore topic.  Well, that, and it was usually only used by people I didn’t like.  The last time I heard it used, I was being sentenced guilty of a crime.”

“Oh?”  Farengar asked.  “Does this mean the hero of my people is secretly a criminal?”

Therion shrugged.

“I’m secretly a lot of things.  Criminal is probably the least impressive among them,” he chuckled, adding, “And it’s hardly a secret.”

“And what was this particular crime?” Farengar pressed with eager curiosity.  “Where you last heard your real name?”

Therion frowned, looking suddenly serious.  He had said it was a sore topic, but Farengar couldn’t stand not knowing, and waited patiently for him to continue.

“Attempted murder,” Therion finally admitted.

" _Attempted_...?" Farengar asked in surprise.  Therion was not someone who did things halfway.

"Yes,” Therion said bitterly.  “They were immortal. I didn't fail from lack of _trying._ "

Farengar rested his chin in his hand, wondering at Therion’s past as he watched the elf’s hands clench into fists.

“What sort of immortality did they possess?” he asked in fascination.  “Were they a vampire?”

“No, this was something… different.  Besides possessing immortality, he was invulnerable.”

“Invulnerable…”

Farengar’s imagination fell short, trying to picture attacking something unkillable.

Therion grit his teeth.

“Yes.  As in, you can carve out his heart and in return he will simply laugh at your efforts.”

Farengar arched an eyebrow, turning slightly pale.

“That... is a very specific example.”

Therion fell silent, bitterly looking away at nothing in particular.

Farengar bowed his head, guilt weighing in his chest.  He had let curiosity outweigh his respect for Therion’s privacy.  If nothing else, the Dragonborn’s penchant for secrecy was starting to make sense.  Therion’s past seemed littered with painful memories, as well as incriminating stories.

“You must have hated that person very much,” Farengar said thoughtfully, trying to imagine what someone could do to Therion to inspire him to such violence.

"I still do," Therion said, his jaw tensing. "As you might imagine, they’re still alive."

"I shouldn't have pressed you about your past," Farengar said apologetically, leaning forward and following Therion's gaze over the sea.

Therion glanced over, giving him a small, kind smile. "It’s alright.  I just don't want to burden you with the unpleasant details of my life."

"It's not a burden," Farengar replied quickly before he could think better of it. "I mean, I'm curious about you.  Who you are.  Where you’ve been.  All of the things you’ve seen and done."

Therion smiled brighter, leaning closer, slowly closing the distance between them.

Farengar felt his heart beating faster the closer Therion came.

Pausing a breath away, Therion stared thoughtfully into Farengar’s cautious eyes, the weight of the Altmer’s gaze filled with unsaid words.  Sighing, Therion rested his forehead against Farengar's, placing a hand at his cheek. Farengar nearly jerked away, startled by the careful, tender caress.  He didn’t know how to respond to Therion’s loving touches, his heart in a panic.  Love was a lie.  A trap.  An alluring, but ultimately ephemeral feeling.  Unsure what to do, he froze.

The Altmer cupped his other cheek, stroking Farengar's ear with a thumb, his human features ever a curiosity.

Therion continued to gently explore with his hands.  Whenever Farengar stiffened at his touch he paused, hand held still, waiting for permission to continue gently stroking his face. The tender, affectionate gestures continued to alarm and confuse Farengar, but as Therion persisted, his trepidation gradually disappeared, until he was touching the elf back.

Though his fingers trembled as he reached out, Farengar swallowed, pushing his anxiety to the back of his mind.  For now, just for a moment, he didn’t have to think.  He could allow himself this much.  

Gently, he laid his fingers on Therion’s cheek, and explored his face in the same way the elf touched his own.  Following the curve of his neck, and tracing the point of his ears, he let his fingers brush across the planes of his face, all the while their lips remained achingly close, but never quite touching.

Therion let out a small sigh of bliss.

"I don't want to hurt you, Farengar," he whispered, his breath soft and warm against his mouth. "But I don't want to stay away from you, either."

Farengar felt light headed, his lips drawing closer to Therion's of their own accord as if magnetized.

"And how exactly, would you hurt me?" he asked in a whisper.

Therion tantalizingly brushed his lips across Farengar's in the ghost of a kiss.

"I was serious when I said I won't outlive you," Therion whispered back, lovingly taking down Farengar's hood and massaging his fingers through his brown hair at the base of his scalp.

Farengar made an appreciative sound, while his own hands rested comfortably on either side of Therion's face.

"You're the one that's going to outlive me by several hundred years," Farengar said, shaking his head, as a painful déja vu came over him, making his heart race. "You're going to get bored of me. Hate watching me age-"

Therion silenced him with a kiss.

"You talk too much," the Dragonborn murmured against his lips. "I could live a thousand years and never grow tired of you."

Farengar stiffened, then recoiled.  

Therion grunted as Farengar shoved him away, the Dragonborn slipping across the roof’s tiles, knocking several loose which crashed on the street below, before he could recover his footing.

 _Lies.  All lies_ , Farengar thought.  He needed to escape.  Pulling on his hood, he turned away, trying to find the quickest way back down to the window.

With lithe grace, Therion sprang to his feet.

"Before you storm off,” Therion said, grinning as the wizard paused.  “There's just one thing I have to tell you."

 _Don’t say it_ , Farengar thought.   _Don’t say you love me..._

"You're a fool," Therion said.

Farengar stopped in his tracks, whirling around to look at the smirking elf.

"What?"

"When we first met," Therion said, "You told me, 'the true mark of a fool is a man who dismisses anything outside his experience as being impossible.'  Clearly, you're a fool _."_

Farengar was too stunned to object as Therion walked up and pulled him back to rest against his forehead.

"You don't think anyone's feelings can be real, just because it's outside your experience," Therion said, thinking on everything Balgruuf had told him of Farengar's Dunmer ex-fiancée. "You know exactly how I feel. I told you in _dovahzul._ And you are far too clever to not to have worked it out.”

“Which is it?” Farengar growled.  “Am I clever or am I fool?”

“Care to find out?” Therion asked. Before Farengar could reply, Therion trapped his lips in a kiss.

Farengar tried to refuse, but Therion responded by tipping him back in his arms, taking away his balance.  Gradually, his muffled sounds of protest gave way, and he relaxed in the Dragonborn’s arms, his eyes slipping shut.

He returned Therion’s kiss, feeling the elf sweep his hood down once more and caress the back of his head with loving tenderness.  There was a feeling behind each kiss and caress, an undeniable intensity, communicating Therion’s fondness and devotion.  All for him.  Farengar’s heart ached in bitter sweet agony.  For once, he fervently wished it would continue to do so.

He trembled ever so slightly and Therion placed his lips by his ear, whispering sweet nothings in the Ayleid tongue.

“ _Angue cyrche melor e ti’elda_ , Farengar,” he said, translating, “My heart will always be yours, Farengar.”

He couldn’t say how long they stayed locked together.

When orange-red light pressed against his eyes, he curiously opened them, wondering why Therion was shaping fire, but he found Therion’s confused expression, glancing skyway.

The night sky was suddenly bright as day above Solitude, as fire appeared overhead, forming a circle.  Humming filled the air, like the build up of magicka before the crack of a spell.  Farengar watched in fascination as currents of magicka built up and erupted in a shower of electrical sparks.

From the distance, a powerful voice bellowed, “ _RU!  FILOK!_ ”

 _Run?  Escape?_ Farengar wondered, translating the _dovahzul._

“The weapon of the _Dilfahliil!_ ” screamed Paarthurnax, barreling down from the Throat of the World. The dragon flew quickly, but his warning was still too late, Farengar realized, sensing the powerful buildup of magicka in the air; they had mere moments before the circle of magic above them opened its destructive forces.

Therion stared into the flames above them, currents of magicka tossing his hair like it was caught in the wind.

The Dragonborn shook his head, laughing.

“Thrynn,” he said, looking at Farengar.  “My name is Thrynn Lor’ellion.”

 

Translation: 

_Angue cyrche melor e ti’elda_

My heart will always be yours

(translation LOOSELY based on canon Ayleid.  IE, I made up the half words.)

 


	18. Fire and Brimstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took some pictures in-game of Therion and Farengar [here](http://miynx.tumblr.com/post/115518073512) and [here](http://miynx.tumblr.com/post/115519302157). (Photobucket was a bust, so I have since re-posted onto Tumblr and updated the links).

Time seemed to slow to a standstill as the lines of fire overheard shot across the sky, racing together in the shape of a circle. The sky burned with great plumes of fire churning in a spiral of clouds, lighting the streets with brilliance akin to that of midday.

Farengar's bones hummed with intense vibration as the power of magicka filled the air.

His breath caught in his throat as he watched the circle overhead come to a close.

The circle completed and in the blink of an eye, the sky opened up, raining fire on Solitude. A whistle in the air nearly deafened him as a ball of fire the size of a dragon broke apart into three smaller sections, punching through the roof of the Bard's College nearby. The top half of the building was destroyed, causing its ruins to be sent crashing into the street below.

Another whistle filled his ears, impossibly loud. Before Farengar could tear his gaze from the devastation, he grunted in surprise as he tumbled across the roof, tackled in Therion's grasp. Tiles and chunks of burning roof rained down on them both as they rolled, while the deafening roar of explosion filled his ears.

What remained of the roof shook violently, impossible to hold onto as fire struck down all around them.

Farengar and Therion slid down the roof, scrambling for purchase as they fell helplessly toward the edge. Farengar barely managed to grab hold of the edge, his legs swinging precariously over as he grasped the blue tiles hard enough to make his hands ache. Loose shingles fell around him, hurtling toward the ground far below. Dragging himself up by his elbows, he looked up to see Therion, holding onto the hilt of his Akaviri Dai-Katana, driven deep into the roof top.

Therion reached for him, stretching himself out while bracing one hand on the sword hilt.

Farengar stretched out his hand, his fingertips barely touching Therion's as the rooftop was blasted under another volley, jarring him violently under the impact.

Farengar fell back, staring up into the surreal inferno roiling overhead. Therion was shouting something distantly over the din of screams and destruction.

A sudden pain in his shoulder struck him, his descent stopping as suddenly as it had started. Therion was suddenly and impossibly dangling above him, grasping his hand. The Dragonborn was clinging onto the edge of the roof, both of them hanging from his grip.

"What do you think you're doing?! Save yourself!" Farengar shouted, watching the elf grit his teeth under the strain.

Therion spared a moment to glare down at him.

" _As if I would_ ," he snarled indignantly.

"The sky will explode at any moment. _This_ ," Farengar said, looking down at the breadth of destruction, "Is nothing. A prelude. Shout yourself ethereal!"

"I can't use my thu'um again so quickly," Therion grunted, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. "I froze time to catch you. So, as fun as it sounds to let you fall to your death, I'm afraid the options are die together, or find another way out."

Farengar snorted, amused and annoyed that the Dragonborn could be snarky even at a time like this.

Another whistle caused Farengar's blood to run cold as he snapped his gaze overhead.

The sound of his own pulse filled his ears as abruptly, all other noises faded away. The screams, roaring flames, crumbling buildings - all were absent. Everything was silent, as the world became unearthly still. He watched in fascination as the colors around him faded to gray, and wondered if his life was about to flash before his eyes. Or, if he were already dead, and had yet to realize it.

Overheard, he heard Therion curse softly. He sounded, of all things, irritated.

Looking up, Farengar witnessed the air before Therion shimmer and glow with drifting particles of light. They quickly gathered into the shape of a man, his splendid gold robes billowing as he hung suspended in mid-air.

"Ah, here you are," Farengar heard the floating man say in a regal voice.

"Quaranir," Therion replied in a gracious tone, grunting from the strain of holding the two of them aloft. "Despite all odds, I'm happy to see you again."

The robed figure chuckled quietly to himself.

"Hm, yes. As I recall, you promised that should I, or the Psijic Order, ever interfere in your affairs again, you would 'slit my throat quicker than a Khajiit can skin two biscuits'."

Farengar couldn't help but stare quizzically up at Therion.

"I was drunk at the time," the Dragonborn explained, apparently feeling the weight of Farengar's gaze without looking. "To say the least."

Farengar felt his body become weightless as Quaranir made several gestures with his hands, maneuvering himself and Therion to hang weightlessly before him. Farengar watched the strange Altmer mage with a wary eye, while marveling at the sight of Solitude below, frozen in time.

"I am glad to find you sober on this occasion," smirked the Psijic monk.

"Yes, well," Therion said, leaning over and retrieving his sword from the rooftop. "My companion and I were struck by a terrible blizzard before I made my way back to the College. I think J'zargo tired of my complaints about the miserable cold, because he gave me what I later came to find out was _double distilled skooma_."

Quaranir raised an eyebrow.

"You mean to say, you defeated Ancano and saved the whole of reality, while high on skooma?"

"Double distilled skooma. Mischievous bastard. I wonder how J'zargo's doing these days?" Therion asked nostalgically, smiling fondly before turning a cynical eye toward Quaranir. "I'm surprised you bothered leaving Artaeum. Tell me you've come to slap the Dominion on the wrist and take away _their_ magical artifact? As you saw fit to do at the College of Winterhold."

Quaranir sighed disdainfully.

"There was serious debate within the Order over that very topic. We are not meant to interfere directly as you well know, least of all against the Aldmeri Dominion. However, we tried to secure their weapon. But, in the end, our efforts were in vain," he said, raising the three of them to float high above Solitude. "The Thalmor Ascendant thwarted our attack, drastically injuring many of my order. I believe he anticipated our involvement."

Farengar tore his gaze away from the pillar of fire above them, threatening to fall upon the city below.

"Whom, or what, is an Ascendant?" he asked.

"The leader of the Thalmor," Quaranir explained with an apprehensive look. "An exceedingly talented Altmer wizard named Radac."

Therion's expression reflected Quaranir's, making Farengar wonder sort of monster could inspire such a reaction from both men.

"And what does all this have to do with our not falling to our deaths?" Farengar pointed out, looking down upon the frozen scene of destruction.

"About that," Quaranir said simply, snapping his fingers.

All around Solitude, orbs of light took shape as time resumed its course, the sky filling with particles of white light. The figures of men and women took shape, their gold Psijic Order regalia displaying prominently against the night sky, as their robes billowed in the wind.

Countless wizards reached out, channeling bright light in their hands, their magicka gathering around Therion, Farengar, and Quaranir. Something was taking shape above them.

A huge orb appeared. Smooth and gray, made up of sections of stones carved with runes.

"What is that?" Farengar asked, watching it lazily rotate.

"The Eye…" Therion said in awe. "The Eye of Magnus!"

Quaranir merely smirked. A staff materializing in his right hand, he tossed it to Therion who caught it.

"You'll need that."

Therion glared at the monk.

"The Staff of Magnus," he said holding up the artifact, "I take it you let yourself into my home in The Pale?"

"Yes. And in Hjaalmarch and Falkreath. It took me days to find. You own a surprising amount of property. I had to thoroughly search each of your homes."

Therion gave Quaranir a dark look.

"Faster than a Khajiit can skin a biscuit," he muttered meaningfully, while giving the staff an experimental swing.

Farengar recoiled slightly as the huge orb responded to the staff, its multitude of sections flying apart. Within its center, a brilliant white light burned, like a caged star.

The order of monks around the city lifted their arms as one, hands moving through arcane ritual. The Eye grew steadily brighter, beams of light channeling out through the Psijic Order. The channels shot forward, forming a circle of light around the three men centered below The Eye.

"Between the three of us, I believe we should be able to form a ward spell to protect Solitude," Quaranir explained, holding up one hand, crackling with raw magical energy. "We were unable to foresee this attack, otherwise we would have prevented it, rather than narrowly showing up in time."

Farengar followed suit, feeling the surge of magicka through his veins as he rubbed his fingers together, producing a brilliant glow of light.

"Why choose us to help you in this?" he wondered aloud.

Quaranir scoffed.

"Who better to protect Skyrim, than its High Wizard," he said nodding to Farengar. "And its Archmage?" he said nodding to Therion.

Therion winced under the intensity of Farengar's glare.

" _YOU-!_ " he shouted angrily, magicka snapping and popping around him as he lost focus. "All the times I suggested you study at the College! And that stupid laugh of yours!" he snarled.

"I didn't want to correct you," Therion laughed guiltily with a roguish smirk. "You were so encouraging. Telling me about my 'aptitude' as a student."

Smiling, he waved the staff, opening The Eye wider and alighting his hand with magic in a loud _crack_.

"Shall we?"

Farengar gave one last exasperated look before nodding, and starting a ward spell.

He felt Quaranir and Therion pour their own power into the spell, Therion's staff brightly glowing as The Eye powered their efforts. Above, a ward the size of Solitude formed, blocking the pillar of flame. Farengar felt the rush of power cascade through him, and saw each of the other mages in the circle managing the same forces. In unison, they finished the spell, the sound resounding through the air as a shockwave erupted through the sky where the brilliant ward pulsed and glowed.

The fire from the sky erupted, crashing down on the wall of runed light. Fire rained and pounded down, so close, Farengar had to close his eyes, and still the light of it left a searing white brilliance behind his eyelids.

When the blinding light faded, he opened his eyes and saw the sky was black with smoke and waves of heat sizzling the air.

Therion cracked his staff and The Eye snapped shut, taking the heady power of magic with it, leaving Farengar feeling momentarily bereft. His body's own store of magicka felt dim, compared with the endless magic contained and supplied by The Eye.

Therion turned his head toward Paarthurnax far away in the sky, and below at the citizens of Solitude. Raising his head to the sky, he breathed deep, and shouted.

" _LOK… VAH KOOR!_ "

The words resonated, the sound reaching the ears of everyone below, and Paarthurnax in the distance, as his voice broke the ward and cleared the sky. The smoke rolled away as though fleeing from his words, revealing the twin moons, and the brilliant blue, green aurora, shimmering bright as ever.

Farengar watched the Psijic monks around Solitude wink out, leaving behind an after glow of white light. Abruptly, his feet touched the ground, as without warning, they teleported. He looked around the desolated interior of the Blue Palace.

Quaranir wasted no time, approaching the High King. Balgruuf looked worse for wear, his face stained with blood, but in one piece.

"The Psijic Order sides with Skyrim," Quaranir said, inclining his head. "We will help you stop the Aldmeri Dominion from unleashing their weapon."

"It seems you've done a great service for Solitude and its people. We welcome an ally that can prevent another attack like this, against one of Skyrim's cities," Balgruuf said, looking over the Psijic.

Quaranir's expression darkened.

"This was, I believe, a test," he explained. "And general pettiness. The next time the Aldmeri Dominion - or more specifically, the Thalmor - employ their weapon, I don't think it will be against a mere city. I think it will be to destroy Skyrim completely."

The room fell silent as Quaranir's words sunk in.

"Until we can locate the Thalmor and their Dwemer artifact," Quaranir continued, "the Psijic Order will do everything in its power to protect and assist Skyrim any way we can."

Balgruuf looked to Therion.

"Is he a friend of yours, Dragonborn?"

Therion snorted.

"Hardly. But I believe he's sincere," Therion said, glancing at Quaranir before tossing him back the Staff of Magnus. "You're holding yourself together admirably, but no one can cast that much magic without it taking a toll - not even a Psijic monk. Go rest at my house while we clean up Solitude. I trust you know where everything is," he added wryly.

"Implicitly," Quaranir replied with the hint of a smile. He vanished into thin air, particles of light fading in his wake.

Proventus set to work organizing committees to take stock of the city, documenting reports of damage, while Balgruuf organized groups to tend the wounded and repairs. He tasked Irileth with organizing a defense of the weakened city, and the dark elf sprung into action, rounding up the guards with iron fervor.

Farengar and Therion, meanwhile, slumped down into two undamaged seats. Farengar felt they were both coming down from a lot of adrenaline and the experience of channeling The Eye, and welcomed a few moments of peace from the turmoil of the evening.

"Quite a night," Therion said, running a hand through his hair.

"Mmm," Farengar agreed sleepily, watching people rush around. Realistically the two of them were probably no longer needed, but it was difficult to leave things in such a state. "Thank you for earlier. You could have let me fall."

"No. I couldn't have," Therion said, smiling at him. Jokingly he added, "I can't sleep without you around. It's bad for my complexion. Dark circles, you understand."

Farengar smirked.

The world was absurd and the threat of destruction was looming, but right then, he wasn't bothered. They had survived the night and claimed a victory in doing so. For now, exhilaration carried him through exhaustion. Surveying the ruins of the party he snorted, then broke into sleep deprived laughter.

"What?" Therion asked.

"It's absurd, but," he said, chest shaking with laughter as he rubbed his forehead, "I can't help thinking, I'm relieved that party is over."

Therion stared at him a moment, before chuckling, and finally laughing heartily along with him.

"I think I know what you mean," he said. "Though, for my part, I enjoyed stealing you away from it. Things were going quite well until… well, you know."

Farengar sighed and smiled despite himself.

"I must admit, I haven't enjoyed myself so much in years, as when I'm with you," he said.

Therion inhaled sharply.

"Oh? Are you finally admitting you're in love with me?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Farengar shook his head.

"You are incorrigible," he said dismissively, a thoughtful frown on his face. "I don't know that I believe in that concept as a whole. I do know I had more than enough of that emotion, when Arcadia laced my mead with a damn love potion."

Therion's expression was suddenly serious, his eyes dark.

"Alchemical 'love' is not real," he said vehemently, fingers curling into fists. "There's no free will. I could have convinced you to kill for me, and you would have. It's nothing more than mental enslavement."

Farengar snorted, a sarcastic remark already on his lips.

"Obsession, lack of free will, rash actions… And what would you call 'real love' then?" he asked rhetorically with a bitter laugh.

Therion replied without pause.

"What I feel when I'm with you."

Farengar's mouth hung agape, stunned into silence.

"You say things like that so casually," he finally replied, trying to draw away from the topic.

"My words are anything but," Therion said, leaning forward.

Silence stretched between them. Therion seemed to resist the urge to reach out and touch him, instead watching him with a silent curiosity.

Amber eyes met his. Handsomely beautiful.

Farengar felt like he was on a precipice. He could to lean forward slightly and wordlessly confirm the hopeful look in Therion's gaze with a kiss if he so chose.

He hesitated, the moment slowly slipping away as he warred internally. Affection, warm and foreign, battled in his heart, confused and numb with turmoil. At the center of it all, he couldn't decide what his feelings were; couldn't sort himself out.

Leaning back in his chair, he thoughtfully cupped his chin in his hand, softly muttering his honest opinion under his breath.

"I'm not good with this sort of thing, Therion."

The elf would probably have heard him, his hearing being exceptional. He preferred to assume, rather than look, lost in his thoughts.

A small, dreamy sigh behind him caught his attention. Turning around, he noticed they were the center of attention for the entire room. Guards, jarls, servants, merchants - countless eyes were on them. The room had apparently fell silent, in an attempt to follow their conversation.

Balgruuf looked up from his conversation with Proventus, noticing the sudden lull. He took one look around the room and crisply ordered everyone back to work.

Therion smiled gently at Farengar, while the mage glared icily behind himself. People hurriedly turned to look interested in various activities, pretending they hadn't been staring.

When he looked back at Therion, he knew the moment between them had passed.

"By far the most interesting coronation I've ever attended," Therion said, changing the subject. "I want to see the state of Solitude with my own eyes before I sleep." Standing up, he turned to Farengar and gave him a smile and a nod. "Good night."

Farengar felt the spine tingling sensation of dozens of eyes on his back. There was a hopeful air in the room which only made him more steadfast in reserving himself.

"Good night," he replied.

He watched Therion leave, uncertainty settling like a weight in the back of his mind. Given the choice, he was still no more certain he would have said or done anything differently, in that moment.

Once the Dragonborn was gone, Farengar frowned to himself, wondering if he had seen a crestfallen look in Therion's eyes.

* * *

Therion leapt from rooftop to rooftop, enjoying the crisp, cold air of Skyrim. The Blue Palace and Bard's College had suffered the worst from the attack. Solitude's market had caught fire during the attack, if the smoking stalls were any indication. Many buildings were sporting holes, and Therion set to work examining the wall surrounding the city. A majority of it still stood and guards were stationed by the worst of it. Carts hauled away wreckage through the main gate, the proud Nord residents already reclaiming the city from the ashes.

Satisfied with his rounds, he headed home. The sight of blue robes caught his eye from the roof of his house. Farengar glanced up at him from the amphitheater of the Bard's College. Miraculously it, and his own neighboring home, had survived. Therion hopped down, walking the tall stone fence between the stage and the sheer cliff side drop. Farengar frowned up at him, clearly disdainful of his proximity to the fall.

"I'm surprised you're still up," Therion said, settling into a crouch.

"Get down from there," Farengar said, glancing nervously through an outlook at the river below, while maintaining a safe distance from the wall.

Therion chuckled, dropping from his purchase to land on his feet.

"It's quite solid, surprisingly. I wouldn't stand on anything that wasn't," he said, joining Farengar. "Your concern is touching though."

Farengar shifted awkwardly in response. Therion quirked his head to the side, intrigued by Farengar's quiet attitude.

"What you said, back at the palace..." he finally began, looking up at him from beneath his hood.

Therion's heart hopefully skipped a beat despite himself as Farengar hesitantly leaned closer, touching his cheek. He responded, leaning into the warm hand. Heart beat quickening, he inclined his head lower for the Nord, part of him yearning to hear Farengar confirm some form of affection for him. It was inconsequential in a way, he mused; he loved him whether or not it was requited. He had no control over it. When Farengar was close, his mind was at peace, his body relaxed.

To his surprise, Farengar closed the distance first, pressing his lips to Therion's.

The faint murmur of 'I love you' against his lips was soft but unmistakable. Therion savored it, shocked and elated, holding the words close to his heart. He let himself be pulled down into a deep kiss, abandoning his senses, and twining his fingers in Farengar's short, brown hair.

Gasping he jerked away, as sharp, cold pain spread across the left side of his chest. His hand flew to the ache, feeling something hard through a dense fog that was settling in his mind. Looking down, he saw the ornate hilt of a dagger. A strange black glow emanating from a jewel on its pummel.

The world spun, as Therion lost consciousness, collapsing onto the cobblestones.


	19. Heart Rend

Farengar winced, abruptly awoken by a loud crash followed by the sounds of hammering and sawing.  Sunlight pressed against the back of his eyelids, filtering through the hole in the inn’s roof directly above him.  Sighing, he reached up a hand from under the covers to rub his face and hide his eyes.  For once, he had slept beneath a blanket.  Not even his Nord blood could withstand the icy cold from the broken window without a small comfort.

Quietly, he listened for any sound of breathing or rustle of movement, anticipation welling anxiously in the pit of his stomach.  Hearing nothing, he opened his eyes.

The room was empty.  He was alone.

Frowning to himself, he stared at the vacant side of the bed.

He wasn't dismayed, he mused, so much as confused.

All night his sleep had been fitful, expecting at any moment to roll over and find Therion sleeping beside him; having silently snuck in during the night at some point.  The Dragonborn had been adamant that he couldn’t sleep without him.

Glancing over at the door he was reminded of Therion's cautious habit to trap each entrance wherever he slept.

Sitting up, he dressed quickly.

Perhaps, he thought to himself as he hurried down the stairs, the Dragonborn had spent the evening catching up with Ondolemar

His suspicious, ex-Thalmor cousin.

Responsible for his torture.

Whom had been curiously absent during last night's events.

Farengar’s frown turned into a scowl as he quickened his pace, weaving through the construction in the market.

Therion was probably fine.  The elf would laugh if he saw him so concerned - he might even be tailing him, somewhere on the rooftops, chuckling at his distress.

Therion was nothing if not cautious, after all. Even more so, since his abduction from Whiterun. He slept on rooftops to avoid detection spells, placed trip wires, and was a walking arsenal of hidden weaponry. His guard was permanently up.

Except, perhaps, Farengar thought grimly, in the presence of someone he trusted.

Hammering a fist on the door of Proudspire Manor, he looked forward to being proven right in his suspicion that he was acting foolishly.  Irate, he knocked harder when there was no answer.

After some time, the door wrenched open a crack while he was still pounding on it.  A single blood shot eye looked him over before opening the door wider.

Ondolemar towered over him, clothing disheveled and eyes deep with shadows.  The thin elf glowered down at him, a fierce, pitiless glint in his eyes.  He didn’t ask what Farengar wanted, merely continued to glare down at him in the secluded alcove.

“I’m here to see Therion,” Farengar explained, returning his stare.

Ondolemar gave him a look that said he very much wanted to slam the door in his face.

“He’s sleeping,” the elf replied in a slow, thick voice. “And I was close to doing the same.  I don’t care if the city’s on fire.  Again.  Come back later.”

Farengar almost felt relieved.

But not enough to stop him from planting his foot and blocking Ondolemar’s attempt to close the door.

The tall elf narrowed his eyes and Farengar met his gaze, unflinching.

"I don't recall asking your permission," the wizard said. "My business is not with you."

Ondolemar stared intently for a minute. Finally, Farengar heard the sound of a blade being sheathed as Ondolemar disappeared, pulling the door open for him to enter.

He kept his eyes fixed on the former Justicar as he walked inside.  

Making his way upstairs, he was acutely aware of Ondolemar following behind him, though the man walked silently.  It was exactly as Therion did, and just as unnerving.

Within Therion's room, he saw the bed occupied, a crown of gold hair visible at the top of the blanket.

Ondolemar made a quiet sound of disapproval when Farengar went inside, standing over the bedside. Craning his head down, a slow frown spread across his face.  In one quick motion, he snatched back the blanket.

"Good morning to you," Quaranir grunted in surprise, sounding indignant. “Oh dear,” he added, looking from from Farengar to Ondolemar.  "More trouble already?"

Farengar ignored his question, throwing down the blanket in his hand and marching swiftly over to Therion’s desk.  Without a word, he flicked of his wrists, alighting both his hands with magicka.  Placing either palm on Therion’s painting, he let out a slow breath and let his eyes slide shut, finding a quiet place in his mind.  A small silver light shimmered, stretching out from the painting; a tether.  It stretched out, leading into a dense fog. He recalled the last time he had used magic to locate Therion, as he let his mind wander away, following the silver cord, trying to gauge his distance.

Glass shattered above his corporeal body, the sound loud enough to draw his mind back.  Confused, he tried to open his eyes, but before he knew what was happening, he found himself staring up at the ceiling from the floor.

Blinking slowly, he tried to gather his wits.

“Oh my,” he heard Quaranir say.  “Are you alright?”

He nodded, then made a face as his head throbbed.  A gentle hand at his back, helped him to sit up.

“A location spell, I take it?  The same happened to me when I tried to locate where the Thalmor are hiding.  That would be the Ascendant’s magic - it packs quite a punch,” he added, looking at the shattered mirror beside where Farengar had stood.  “What or who were you- Oh, no. The Dragonborn...?" he asked. When neither answered him, the monk rose to his feet.

“I must alert the Order.  I’ll return soon,” he said quickly, vanishing and leaving behind orbs of light in his wake.

Farengar wrenched himself off of the floor and stood with some effort.

He looked to Ondolemar. His face was its usual neutral mask.  Farengar found it irksome that the elf wasn’t visibly upset.  If indeed he was upset at all.

“I should inform the Jar- the High King,” Farengar said, trying to think clearly, rage building up inside of him.

Ondolemar looked around the room.

“Well. While you do that, I might finally get some sleep, seeing as the bed is free now,” he said, glancing down at Farengar.  “I trust you can show yourself out?”

Farengar stared at him in open surprise.

“Yes,” he said slowly.  With a curious parting glance, he left Proudspire Manor.

 

* * *

 

    Ondolemar didn’t bother waiting to hear the door downstairs shut before wrenching open a window and leaping through it.  He pulled his black hood low and sprang down the wall and into an alley.  The Blue Palace was covered with scaffolding, making his task easier.  Casting an invisibility spell, he crept up toward the living quarters.

 

* * *

 

    Melaran sighed, surveying his room.  Some of his books could be recovered, but others had simply been reduced to ash.  Shutting the door behind him, he felt a breeze from through the window, scattering the papers of his desk.  He sprang across the room to latch it.  Just as he was wondering how it had opened in the first place, he saw a black reflection in the glass.

    The court wizard whirled around, heart hammering in his ears, back pressed against the wall.

    The mer before him pulled back his dark hood and placed a finger to his lips.

    “Don’t scream,” Ondolemar said quietly.

    “You’re alive?!” Melaran exclaimed, looking him up and down.  “How?”

    “I faked my death,” Ondolemar explained, picking up his papers and placing them in order.  “Illusion magic, to hide my pulse.  I’d never actually imbibe poison,” he added, neatly setting down the wizard's research.

    “The Dragonborn,” Melaran replied with a frown, thinking back.  “He wanted you dead…”

    Ondolemar scoffed.

    “Therion?” he asked with a chuckle.  “He’s too soft to kill me.  We’re kin.  I fed the fool Nords some interesting lies.  Come morning, I was going to lead Therion into a trap.  To ‘find the Thalmor’.  I haven’t the slightest clue where the my unit is," he shrugged.  "Not since I was ambushed by the Imperials and dragged here in chains,” he added, a glint of something murderous in his eyes.

    Melaran was grateful he wasn’t at that moment General Tullius.

    “Bringing the Dragonborn back with me was going to go a long way toward making up for the embarrassment of my capture.  However, you’ve gotten in the way of that,” Ondolemar said, giving him an appraising stare.

    Melaran swallowed, debating whether to shout for the guards.

    “I’m sorry, to tell you - and every other Nord in the city - but I’m not Thalmor.  Just Altmer.”

Ondolemar seemed to ignore him.

    “As… _displeased_ as I am to find you’ve abducted my fool cousin, I am quite elated that you can point me toward my unit.  I’ve had enough of this city- of this country.  I’ve been dragged in chains for a week, and I haven’t slept in days, so-”

    “I understand, but I’m not Thalmor!” Melaran interrupted, cutting him off with an irritated sigh.

    Ondolemar frowned at him impatiently.

    “Come now.  I’m head Justicar.  I know which cities have sleepers, even if I’m not privy to their identities.  Not that it’s very hard to guess, now is it?” he said, drumming his fingers on Melaran’s desk.

    “Ask Viarmo at the Bard’s College or Taarie or any of the other Altmer living here then!  I’m _not_ Thalmor!” he yelled angrily, pointing a finger at him.  “I do not suffer fools gladly.  Your ilk nearly turned me to _charcoal_ last night, so I’d hardly be loyal even if I were-”

    He was so focused on Ondolemar’s even, drumming fingers on his desk, that he didn’t notice his other hand move until he was pressed against the wall by his throat.

    “I tire of this,” he said simply.  “Your family name is Graybinder.  You’ve lived in Solitude for five years.  Before that, no one knows where you came from.  Indeed, I could ask Viarmo where to find my brethren if he were still alive.  Tragically, the master of the Bard’s College died in last night’s attack.  Taarie would have been a possibility, had the good tailor not broken her leg.  Therion is many things, but easy to subdue, is not one.  I required five men, invisible, with the element of surprise, while he was inebriated, and still had a difficult time of it myself.  I am fascinated how you achieved it, truly.”

    Ondolemar dropped him, gasping for air and sat down at his desk, leaning back and folding his arms.

    Melaran frowned thoughtfully and sighed.

    “Blackreach.  Beneath the ruins of Mzinchaleft,” he muttered.  “If you were anyone other than Head Justicar-”

    “Of course.  I know your oath to secrecy,” Ondolemar replied smoothly.  “But I have urgent information I must report, and you’ve done well by directing me.  Now.  How _did_ you capture my cousin?”

    Melaran smiled slyly.

    “A daedric artifact; a dagger.  I liberated it from my former employer, Erikur.  The fool had no idea of its enchantment.  When it penetrates the skin, it renders a man temporarily in a death like state.  Useful for transporting someone. They have no need for food, water - barely even air.”

    “Hm. Still,” Ondolemar said thoughtfully.  “I trained Therion with a blade.  He’s not easy to stab.”

    “On the contrary.  It was pitifully easy,” Melaran said with a self satisfied smile at Ondolemar's surprised expression.  “He’s a romantic. In love.  One kiss and a few words of affection disguised as the ‘High Wizard’ Secret-Fire...” Melaran laughed.  “The look in his eyes!” he exclaimed.

    He was still laughing when a blur of blue robes suddenly appeared before him, revealing Farengar, his expression making Melaran flinch.  The mage had been invisible the entire time.  And, he realized too late, it had only fallen off because the Nord was swinging a hard fist at his face.  Melaran staggered back, stunned and dazed, clutching his jaw, as Farengar grabbed the front of his robes.

 

* * *

 

    “He might be dead,” Ondolemar pointed out, as Farengar paused for breath.

    The Nord was drenched in sweat, blood covering his knuckles.

    He peered up at Ondolemar, his breathing heavy.

    “I only point it out,” Ondolemar said politely.  “Because he may have lied to me about Blackreach.  In which case I would need to ask him again where they took Therion.  And I don’t know any necromancers in the vicinity.”

    Farengar unceremoniously dropped Melaran, and moved to stand at the window.  Ondolemar picked him up and tied him to his chair, healing the unconscious mer to a stable condition.

    “How did you follow me?” Ondolemar asked, glancing over at Farengar's back as he worked.

    Farengar said nothing.

Ondolemar didn’t press him, letting him cool down.  He looked at Melaran's swollen face approvingly, though he envied Farengar for it.

    “A detect life spell,” Farengar said at length, glaring either through the window or at own his reflection, Ondolemar wasn’t sure which.  “I waited outside the house and followed you here.”

    “I didn’t even notice you were in the room with us,” Ondolemar said, duly impressed.

    “Therion has been rubbing off on me."

    Ondolemar couldn’t conceal the sad frown on his face.

    “How did you know I was confronting his abductor?”

    Farengar finally turned around to look at him.

    “I didn’t.  I thought you were behind it.”

    “Ah,” Ondolemar said with a thoughtful nod.  “At what point during the conversation did you realize I was pretending to be a traitor?”

    “That,” Farengar said, using a cloth to wipe the blood from his hands, “would imply I’ve ruled it out.”

    Ondolemar gave him an intrigued look, followed by a small smile.

    “I think I like you, High Wizard," he said, pulling down his hood.  "We should hurry.  I wish I were still out there. Damn Tullius.  I could have made sure Therion wasn’t taken back to Alinor.”

"With any luck,” Farengar said, leading their way toward Balgruuf's chamber, “we can find him in Blackreach, before they have a chance to flee Skyrim. But the ruin is massive. And he may even already be bound for the Summerset Isle.”

Ondolemar frowned and quickened his pace.

“Not if we find them first.”

“If they escape Skyrim and reach your country, do you have a plan?" Farengar asked.

Ondolemar stopped short, and Farengar turned to face him.

Glancing around, he saw the hall was empty.

“I wouldn’t need one, if that were the case,” Ondolemar said quietly.

Farengar frowned, picking up something in his tone.

“Therion didn’t tell you he was exiled from Alinor?”

    “Not in so many words,” Farengar said thoughtfully.  “He said he was found guilty of attempted murder.”

    Ondolemar hesitated, reluctant to divulge what Therion had not.

    “Altmer have a tradition, about our exiles.  Our kind are long lived,” he explained.  “Exile is not lightly done.  The sentence is a ceremony called _Dagon Cyr_ , or Heart Rend.  If Therion sets one foot in Alinor, his heart will stop beating.  He’ll die.”

    Ondolemar frowned, hands tightening into fists.

"But that's not what frightens me," he said, eyes darkening.

 

* * *

   

Beneath the bluish glow of numerous, loosely floating spores, two Thalmor climbed an ancient stone staircase. The First Emissary, dressed in the black robes of her office, lead a handsome mer dressed in resplendent, red robes.

"The Dragonborn, my Lord Ascendant," she said.  With a respectful bow of her head, she indicated the unconscious Altmer bound at the center of the platform.  A dagger of strange enchantment was buried to the hilt in his chest.

Quirking her brow, Elenwen looked up when her companion neither spoke nor moved.

His gold eyes stared unblinking at the Dragonborn.

"Thrynn..." he whispered in disbelief.  A sinister smile crossed his face.  "Welcome back, _lover_."


	20. Silgahrot

Warning! Some brief, but graphic depictions of violence in this chapter.

* * *

Therion's eyes snapped open.

Throwing back his head, he gasped in a great, long breath, chest heaving, as though he were a drowning man surfacing for air. Violent shivers ran through his body, numb and cold as ice. Limply, his head fell forward, causing his gold hair to fall across his blurred vision of the dimly lit, stonework floor.

Staring wretchedly down at the dimply lit, stonework floor, he saw a dark puddle dripping beside his boot. Squinting down at himself, he found the left half of his chest bleeding.

Miserably exhausted and beyond caring, he sighed, letting his eyes slide half shut, shaking and drawing in labored breaths.

He flinched as a gold hand touched his chest, applying pressure to his stab wound.

Brilliant rays of light swirled around their fingers, flowing into his body, the spell bright as the sun.

Gradually, his shivering subsided, the magic breathing life and warmth back into his disturbingly cold body.

"Good to have you back among the living," a familiar voice said. Chuckling they added, "I'm afraid my agent was over zealous. Chest wounds are all but impossible to heal. But then, we've done this once already, haven't we, Thrynn?"

The Dragonborn tensed, a chill running up his spine.

* * *

" _Thrynn!_ Can you hear me?!"

He blinked, eyes cracking open to sunlight. No, not the sun, he realized. Healing light. So bright, it made his eyes ache.

"Radac…?" he groaned, looking up at the Ascendant's sharp, gold eyes, a stark contrast as ever to his black hair and red robes. " _The Beautiful!_ " he shouted, suddenly coming to and sitting up. The extremists were getting away.

Sharp pain exploded in his chest.

"The others are pursuing them," Radac assured him, applying pressure to his chest wound. "This needs attention."

"How did they get into the Crystal Palace," he muttered, as Radac helped him up. Thrynn sheathed the sword lying beside him, hesitating as Radac tried to support his weight. "Your robes-" he began, swaying unsteadily as he looked down at his armor, slick with blood.

"Are already red," Radac interrupted with a frown, placing Thrynn's arm around his neck. "I'm much more concerned for you."

Thrynn looked out through the decimated wall of the library at the city below as he walked along with Radac, clutching his chest. Within, he gazed sadly over the section of burnt books, still smoldering. The dead bodies of _The Beautiful_ lying beside them brought him no satisfaction for the lost knowledge.

"It could have been a great deal worse, all things considered," Radac said, trying to console him. "They had daedric relics of some sort, allowing them to teleport at will - never staying still for more than a moment. That you killed so many of them…" he made a sound of deep approval. "It was quite a sight."

Thrynn managed to open the door to Radac's chamber for him.

"Skill with a blade is prerequisite for my post," he said humbly. Sighing, he added, "As is knowing these sorts of things in advance."

Radac set him down in a chair.

"Not even you could have known they would do this," he said, rummaging through elegantly carved shelves containing numerous crystal bottles. "Don't hold yourself accountable; I do not."

Thrynn looked down at his hands, his frustration not deterred in the slightest.

"I suppose if a mer is going to be mortally wounded," Thrynn said, trying to muster a cheerful smile, "there's nowhere better than in front of Nirn's most powerful restoration mage."

"I would rather be remembered for my alchemy," Radac said disdainfully, handing him a potion. "I was born a powerful mage. My alchemy took countless centuries of study and application to hone."

Thrynn scoffed as he drank.

"You don't look over three centuries, at most."

It was not idle flattery; Radac looked young and handsome despite his age, which was presumably advanced. No one was exactly certain how long he had been the leader of the Thalmor for, but it had been since before Ondolemar had been born at least; and he was approaching his four hundredth year.

"Looks can be deceiving," Radac said with a dark smile. "Restoration magic has many benefits."

Glancing toward the door, he waved a hand in its direction, shutting it with telekinesis before he continued.

"Namely…" he said in a hushed voice. "Immortality."

Thrynn shivered as Radac reached his hand out once more. Had he shut the door for the privacy of their conversation or did he have something else in mind? To his relief, Radac resumed healing his aching chest.

"Immortality," Thrynn replied thoughtfully. "In that case, you look very good for your age," he smirked, looking him over. "Whatever it is."

A frown quickly formed on his lips.

Why was he flirting with the Ascendant?

Radac was certainly in one of his rare moments.

At times like these, Thrynn could almost forget the disgusting things he knew about the mer. That someone so devoted to butchering others, persecuting his people, and dragging the honor of their race and country through the mud, could have an interesting - _attractive_ even - personality… it disturbed him almost as much as the rest.

Thrynn's highest priority was eradicating the Thalmor, inside out. Ondolemar was working his way up through their structure of Justicars after some urging, while he and the other members of the _Laloria Malatar_ secured positions throughout the rest of the country to make way for revolt; a few more years and they should overthrow the Thalmor completely.

The group of spies had returned from the Great War to find the Thalmor seeped into the country like a rot, taking advantage of their beloved homeland laying in shambles from war. The Aldmeri Dominion was little more than a puppet these days, and Alinor was reduced to a husk of its former grandeur. Mer everywhere were living in fear, persecution, or willful ignorance.

"It's lonely," Radac said, interrupting his thoughts. "Immortality. It is obviously a gift, but it can also be maddening," he added with a weary sigh, finishing the healing spell, but remaining enticingly close. "Once, in a great while, I find someone who makes the passing of years more pleasant."

Thrynn looked at him with conflicted feelings, wanting to comfort him. The Ascendant's dark, intelligent eyes made his stomach twist.

Uncertainty gnawed at him.

Focusing, he thought of the Nord prisoner in the dungeon. A Talos worshipper, and Radac's regular source of entertainment. He spent many evenings torturing and healing the poor man.

Despite the gruesome image, Thrynn felt the urge to stand up and draw Radac close.

Quick as lightning, deliberately giving himself no time to think, Thrynn stabbed the Ascendant in the chest and slit his throat, bolting for the door.

A shout escaped his throat as he was slammed off of his feet and flattened against the floor by an invisible force. Air knocked out of his lungs, he gasped for air, chest pinned beneath an unseen barrier.

Radac gingerly touched the skin of his throat.

Thrynn watched the wound close itself, blood drawing back into his skin, leaving no trace.

Radac grinned wickedly down at Thrynn, struggling beneath his ward on the floor.

"That's why I like you - how many mer would follow their gut and stab their Ascendant?" he said approvingly. "You couldn't have known _The_ _Beautiful_ were going to attack. I gave them the means. No, you're far too clever to drink a potion from me - even a wine glass - under normal circumstances. So cautious," he smirked, kneeling down and caressing his cheek.

Thrynn glared murderously up at him as he leaned closer.

"I would have you as my ally," he said, tracing a line along his face as he lifted his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "But I'd rather you as a lover. A trusted confidant. There's so much work a clever mer like you can accomplish for me."

Thrynn, unable to speak beneath his magic, replied by deftly removing a dagger from his sleeve with one hand and quickly burying it deep within Radac's closest eye.

Surprised, the Ascendant's ward faltered momentarily.

Thrynn, pressing his advantage, leapt to his feet, pulling his sword free in one fluid motion. Carving through Radac's chest in quick thrusts, he removed his still beating heart.

What he heard filled him with cold dread; the sound of Radac's amused laughter. In desperation, he separated the Ascendant's head from his body in one swift move. The mer's heart and decapitated head dissolved into blood before reforming wholly once more on Radac's body, perfect and unmarred.

Thrynn involuntarily dropped his sword as he was crushed beneath another ward spell, this time forcefully trapping him against the wall.

"I know you don't love me," Radac said affectionately, walking over to him. He gently ran a thumb across Thrynn's lips, cupping the back of his neck. The mer jerked his head away. Smirking, Radac patiently stood back. "Not yet, at least. Give my potion time to do its work. Don't worry," he added with a predatory grin. "I won't do anything you don't ask me to."

* * *

"I've missed you, Thrynn," Radac said fondly. "You were the assassin's assassin. Literally. The way you took care of all those little _problems_. Discrete. Efficient. And talented in so many other ways," he added with an evil grin.

The Dragonborn slowly raised his head, staring up with cold, calculating eyes at Radac.

"I should introduce you both. This is my Spymaster, Verandis. Your replacement," he said, sweeping a hand toward a smirking mer, hovering behind Radac like a shadow. "Not that anyone could replace you, Thrynn," he added affectionately, voice tinged with nostalgia, to Verandis' clear displeasure. "Come, say something," he urged with eager curiosity. "It's been years."

Therion's amber eyes flickered momentarily to the snidely glaring Verandis and then back to Radac.

"You're right," the Dragonborn said, a slow, cocky smile spreading across his face. "He's no replacement for _me_."

Therion sliced the rest of his way through his ropes, unleashing the full force of his thu'um with a thunderous _FUS RO DAH!_ , while throwing his hidden obsidian dagger between Verandis' eyes. Several Thalmor soldiers at the edge of the raised platform screamed as his voice crashed into them, knocking them to their deaths. The remaining mer charged forward with wide eyes, drawing their weapons.

Therion lunged, grabbing hold of the staggered Radac, using his ropes to bind the mer's hands from spell casting.

Sensing movement over his shoulder, he spun, using the Ascendant as a shield.

Elenwen's invisibility dropped as she struck forward with a familiar glowing, black daedric weapon. Shock colored her face as she stabbed the wrong mer.

Before she could retreat back and withdraw her weapon, Therion threw Radac aside. The Ascendant lay still, apparently rendered unconscious by the blade. Ducking low to avoid her hastily cast fire spell, Therion grasped her outstretched arm.

Circling around, he was poised to snap her neck when something struck him, stopping him short with one hand at her shoulder and another on her head.

A familiar roar of air greeted his ears, as something deep within him responded to the pull of magical forces. It was, at first, exactly like slaying a dragon.

Except something was wrong.

The wind had always been white, hadn't it…? This wind was blue.

And then he felt a staggering pull _,_ wrenching him apart.

* * *

Radac opened his eyes, looking up at the shrouded face of the Thalmor Archmage as the wizard slid the black dagger from his shoulder. He sat up as the mer diligently sliced apart the ropes binding his wrists. Nodding his thanks, he rose easily to his feet, immortal body unphased by the deathlike embrace of the daedric enchantment.

Looking around the pavilion, he took stock of what he had missed while unconscious. At the middle of the platform was a sea of chaos, doubtless at the center of which was the Dragonborn. In his absence, the mages had evoked the Dwemer artifact, _Silgahrot_. The blue etherium crystal shone brightly, hovering between five Thalmor mages.

He barely caught sight of the Dragonborn in the midst of the soldiers, wearing nothing more than a pair of black trousers. His armor had apparently been stripped off and thrown away as a precaution against more hidden, obsidian weapons.

Radac spared an apathetic glance at his late Spymaster.

Verandis had removed numerous iron daggers from their prisoner, dragging a lodestone thoroughly across his armor. Completely missing the more carefully hidden non-metallic, volcanic glass.

The Dragonborn had been right.

Verandis was - or had been - a poor Spymaster comparatively.

"How many dragons has he _killed?_ " one of the mages asked incredulously, staring at Therion. Numerous orbs of light shone beneath the Dragonborn's skin, made pale and ethereal beneath the blue glow of the Dwemer artifact.

Radac stared in fascination, for what felt like the first time in centuries.

Therion's entire body brimmed with the radiance of countless, luminous souls contained within him, like constellations of stars - all impossibly trapped within one, mortal vessel.

Radac shook his head, composing himself as he looked away from the dazzling sight.

Therion struggled, restrained against the central stone pillar by every soldier present, the gold armored mer holding him fast as the mages siphoned his essence into _Silgahrot._ Blue wind roared from him to the crystal, whirling with tremendous speed _._

In the midst of the pandemonium, Radac saw between the windswept mages' robes and shuffling soldiers in elven armor, catching a clear sight of Therion for the first time.

One of the soldiers had a gauntleted hand mercilessly clamped over his mouth, wary of the Dragonborn's voice.

Though he could not cry out, Therion's agony was evident. Writhing, he twisted violently in their grasp, face contorted with pain.

Radac narrowed his eyes, gold magicka flaring to life and encircling his fingertips. Squeezing his hand into a tight fist, an aura of gold light burst forth, the expanding ring knocking everyone to the ground in its path.

_Silgahrot_ fell on the stones, landing with an ominous knell, the blue crystal rolling to a stop beside Therion. Three globes of light drifted within the artifact, as a fourth pulsed, still forming. Without the mages fueling it, _Silgahrot_ siphoned its power more slowly, the blue wind settling down to a soft breeze. Therion lay still beside it, body jerking at odd intervals under its drain.

Radac knelt down, looking with concern at his pallid, bare skin, covered in a sheen of sweat.

"So," Therion said listlessly. "This is what you wanted me for. My dragon souls."

Radac pressed his lips together in a tight line.

"I scarcely believed that the 'Dragonborn' was anything but Nord nonsense. Let alone that it would be _you_ ," he said, still disbelieving. With a small smile he added, "You know, some even think you're Tiber Septim, reincarnated."

Therion chuckled wearily despite himself.

"So I've heard."

Radac looked down at him, taking in the deep scars of his chest for the first time.

"Head Justicar Ondolemar's interrogation," he said, tracing the jagged lines, his eyes clouded.

"A diligent mer, _that_ one," Therion said, gritting his teeth against the pain of the crystal. "Takes his work a bit too seriously, if you ask me. He seemed to find me 'insufferable', though I quite liked him. Really, he deserves a promotion, Radac. Tell him it's from _me_. I would pay to see the look on his face."

Abruptly his muscles tightened and he clenched his teeth, stricken by a violent wave of pain. Closing his eyes, he shook in a frightening display.

"I derive no pleasure from this, Thrynn," Radac said softly, channeling healing magic across his temples with each hand.

"That makes two of us," Therion replied as soon as he caught his breath.

Radac shook his head.

"I've missed your wit."

"Then renounce my exile," Therion murmured, trying to adjust between the painful crystal and the numbing magic.

Radac snorted lightly.

"You're far too dangerous."

Therion cracked open his amber eyes to regard him.

"Me?" he asked sounding wounded and surprised. "I'm harmless. What have I ever done?"

Radac tried to not find him amusing.

"Half of my soldiers just fell to their deaths from the sole use of your voice, Thrynn."

"I've always thought these ruins needed guardrails. Very unsafe - perhaps that's why the Dwemer disappeared," he said, wearily closing his eyes once more.

"You murdered my Spymaster. Despite being tied to a column," Radac pointed out.

Therion grinned.

"That _was_ rather impressive of me, wasn't it?"

"Or," Radac continued brusquely, "That business back in Alinor. When you broke free of my potion and incited a riot which nearly lead to a revolution."

"Nearly, but not quite. Not my best revolution, it's been a constant source of disappointment," Therion said with a sigh. "I really expected more from myself. But alas, the Thalmor's influence was too hard for one lone mer to break."

"Lone mer indeed," Radac said disdainfully. "I never found out who helped you; especially who forced you into drinking an antidote to my potion."

"Thank Talos for small favors," Therion replied cheekily, giving him a galling smile.

Radac ignored his gibe, not rising to the taunt.

"Give me a name and I'll renounce your exile."

Therion made a small scoffing sound.

"Even if I believed you - no."

Radac chuckled.

"Loyal to the death. I've missed that as well." For a moment his gold eyes clouded with nostalgia. "You were loyal to me once."

"I was never loyal to you, Radac," Therion corrected. Inwardly, he kept searching for his _thu'um_ , but the crystal separated it from his voice, suppressing his ability to shout.

"Thrynn..." Radac began thoughtfully. With a sigh, he changed topics. "You've changed your name, I'm told. I don't care for it."

"Good," Therion replied tersely with satisfaction.

"And you became the folk hero of the Nord race since I saw you last as well. How did you, an _Altmer_ of all things, come to be this 'Dragonborn'?" he asked curiously.

Therion tilted his head in a gesture of mock thoughtfulness, and Radac knew at once he would loath his reply.

"Talos works in mysterious ways."

Exhaling sharply, Radac gave him severe look.

"I'm beginning to remember why I exiled you."

"No," Therion said, cracking his eyes open. "If I had the strength to break your nose and remove every one of your organs in random order, _then_ you would remember why you banished me. My mocking you enjoy, because everyone fears you. No one else stands up to you. Well… no one else with my wit, charm, and a full-scale assault on the capital city," he added.

"Your humility… that's _not_ something I've missed, if you were curious."

"Please," Therion said. "That was me being humble. Go on. Revoke my exile. We could chat every occasion I try to kill you. How dangerous can I be? You're immortal."

"How well you know it," Radac said, giving him an irksome look. "No one's ever put it to the test quite like you…"

Therion chuckled weakly.

"At least I can correct anyone who claims you have no heart," Therion said. "Physically, at least."

Radac reached over, picking up the crystal artifact. Turning it in his hand, he thoughtfully inspected its soft, blue light; the same radiance reflected beneath Therion's skin, mirroring its ebbs and flows, brighter the closer it came to his body.

_"_ The Nords call it _Silgahrot_. Do you know what that means?" he asked, curiously pressing the crystal against Therion's chest. "Of course you do, you speak Dragon."

Therion groaned, the pull of the crystal made worse by proximity.

"Soul stealer," he muttered.

Radac nodded.

"Legend tells of a jealous jarl. Outraged when a Dragonborn appeared in Skyrim, not of the Nord race. A familiar tale, in that regard; though this one was Khajiit. The story goes that the treacherous jarl met with the Dwemer, forging an alliance. Together they created a weapon - a crystal capable of trapping dragon souls as effectively as a Dragonborn. But more to the point... Capable of taking their ability - their _shout_ \- away. The jarl stole their soul, and with it, their voice. With the Dragonborn's powerful ' _thu'um'_ he subdued the dragon, Numinex. Keeping it prisoner in his keep, thereupon called 'Dragonsreach', until the beast went mad."

"Well," Therion said dryly. "I feel better about helping the Bard's College bring back those weekly effigy burnings of Olaf One-Eye now. The lute lessons weren't a complete waste afterall."

"I could steal your voice," Radac said thoughtfully, ignoring him. "However, I have a recent opening for a new Spymaster. You could accept that the Thalmor are good for our society and forget crusading for the lesser races. Return to Alinor with me. Free from exile," he added, watching Therion's expression become alert before turning swiftly skeptical. "You were happy with me, once," Radac added, reaching out to touch his face.

"I was as happy as I was loyal," Therion replied, avoiding his hand. "You get drunk on power, Radac. Nasty habit."

"Ah, yes. And remind me again how many organizations and plots you are the very center of?" Radac asked knowingly.

"That's different. Being the center of plots is my hobby. Like painting. Or learning the language of a race of flying, fire-breathing lizards brought back from the dead by the harbinger of the apocalypse. Of the three, I'm significantly better at one than the others. And it's not painting."

Radac stared at him in open curiosity.

"What in Oblivion have you been _doing_ in this godsforsaken country?"

"To be honest?' he asked, his bare chest shivering. "Freezing to death, mostly. You just had to choose Skyrim to start your scheme, didn't you? You couldn't have chosen a warmer climate like Hammerfell or Elsweyr?"

"You agreed at the time - Skyrim is the backbone of the Empire. The Markarth Incident was absolutely inspired, thank you for that," he said, smirking at Therion's glare of loathing. "And you haven't given my proposal a yes or a no."

"What, returning to Alinor? With you?" Therion laughed, not taking him seriously. "You just said I was too dangerous. Now you want to hire me back with a raise?"

"I didn't say there wasn't a price," Radac replied, quirking an eyebrow. "Seeing you again… I didn't realize how lonely life would be, with you in exile. I am alone. I spent entire months without speaking, just to see what would happen," he said with a sigh. "As you said, everyone fears me. This, is probably the only direct conversation I've had in years," he finished, glancing at the Thalmor soldiers standing out of earshot, the squad flinching under his gaze.

Therion gave him a frigid look.

"If you're waiting for me to be sympathetic, you have me confused for that lobotomized version of myself you kept enslaved by alchemy for five hellish years. You're a genocidal lunatic, Radac. You should suffer for your crimes, but you're immune to pain. You deserve to die, but you're immortal. If you're looking to me of all people for comfort, know that I take _great_ joy in your misery," Therion replied fervently.

After a long pause, Radac nodded.

"Ah, but it's not a question of how much you hate me, but how badly you miss Alinor. How much you want to see home, just one last time. How many times has the thought crossed your mind?"

He saw Therion's jaw tick.

"You told me once Alinor was the one thing you truly loved. That you would do anything for our country. How much you must have hated me, when I exiled you," he said with a sad laugh. "But the only alternative was a death sentence and that, was not an option. I could never kill you, Thrynn."

"Really? You're doing a great job of it at the moment," he replied nodding toward _Silgahrot_. "Slow and painful."

"I won't take your soul. But I need your dragon souls. You won't agree with the method, but you're going to ensure the future of our race."

Therion said nothing, glaring intently.

"Like it or not, the Nords will soon be a memory. The question is, how do you want to spend the rest of your life, once they're gone? I'll destroy the rest of the races of men in good order - I have nothing but time on my side, as you well know. You could be there, helping me shape our peoples' destiny. Or you could spend the rest of your life alone, never again to see the crystal spires of your home. Watching your friends age and die. I don't recommend it - it takes a heavy toll."

Therion glanced at _Silgahrot_ , helplessly watching as a fifth orb began taking form within the crystal.

"I can guess what your price is," Therion said with an angry sigh of resignation, amber eyes burning with hatred. "And my answer is no, not that you care."

He watched a slow, sinister smile spread across Radac's face with disgust.

"Oh Thrynn, how I have missed you," he chuckled. "You know me so well."


	21. Shattered

"There are few pleasures in life higher than having your company," Ondolemar said politely, a faint smile of amusement belying his words.

Glancing up from his book, Farengar spared him a wry look before engrossing himself once more in his reading. Ever since Ondolemar had awoken, the elf had been actively trying to strike up conversation. Despite every terse, cynical response Farengar gave, somehow his manners never faltered, and neither did his interest in talking. Farengar eventually had given up, ignoring the former Head Justicar entirely.

Eyes wandering to the top of his next page, Farengar couldn't help noticing Ondolemar over the top of the worn, red book cover. The shadows around his eyes had diminished, but there was still a gaunt look, betraying his exhaustion. Idly, Farengar wondered about Ondolemar's time spent as General Tullius' prisoner as he searched for traces of fear, tension, concern; any emotion at all, beneath the elf's perfectly refined, businesslike air. There was something disconcertingly calm about him, something detached, Farengar mused, trying to put his finger on what precisely struck him as odd about the elf.

Leaning forward, Ondolemar lifted a ladle from the pot cooking over the fire, gently blowing the steam away before tasting it. After a thoughtful look, he appeared satisfied and set to work dishing up two bowls.

Slowly and deliberately turning a page, Farengar ignored the stew offered to him.

"You've had nothing to eat all day," Ondolemar said, polite but firm. As the elf had spent the majority of the day snoring on the floor, spread out on a bear fur, Farengar was tempted to point out that this was entirely speculation on his part. Completely accurate, but speculation nonetheless. "You need to eat."

Blue hood shifting as he glanced down at the bowl, Farengar looked back to the elf with piercing sea green eyes.

"I don't trust you," he said curtly.

"At last, he speaks!" Ondolemar said enthusiastically, a broad smile forming across his thin, gold lips. "I would be surprised if you did, considering. However," he continued, drumming his fingers while persistently holding out the bowl with his other hand. "If I wanted you dead, I can, just off the top of my head, think of a dozen _fascinating_ ways to kill you that require a great deal less effort than cooking you dinner. _Ah!_ For instance-"

Sighing, Farengar grabbed the bowl, cutting Ondolemar off before he could have the chance to elaborate. Setting his book carefully aside, he marked the page, and tried a spoonful of the hot broth.

"What are you reading?" Ondolemar asked curiously, glancing around him to look at the novel. "Magic tome? Historical text?" He watched a curious expression flicker across Farengar's face.

Swallowing the food in his mouth before answering (a rarity in Nord culture, Ondolemar thought privately), Farengar replied, " _A Dance in Fire._ "

"Mm," Ondolemar said simply, glancing thoughtfully at the book's carefully wrapped, paper covering.

Farengar was surprised as Ondolemar finally fell quiet, leaving both of them to eat in silence.

When they had finished their meal, Ondolemar vanished off into the former bandit camp, returning a short while later, two bottles of mead in hand. Taking a seat beside the wizard, he unstopped the corks before silently offering him a drink.

Farengar glanced at the mead, then took it, letting the warm liquid pour down his throat. Grateful for the silence, he idly rolled the glass thoughtfully between his hands, his mind wandering. Firelight dancing in his eyes, his brow furrowed.

"Tell me about Radac," Farengar said at length, breaking the silence.

Ondolemar took a drink of the honeyed wine, his expression remaining neutral.

"He is as Quaranir described him," he said evenly, recounting their earlier conversation. "The leader of the Thalmor; the Ascendant. He is immortal, invulnerable, and terrifyingly powerful. The strongest restoration mage in Alinor, and possibly on Nirn, it's rumored he can heal any wound, cure any disease - even resurrect the dead. A mer wholly devoted to reigning chaos and violence down on the mortal races, starting with you Nords. And, somewhere in the Dwemer ruins below us, he has my cousin."

Farengar made a soft, empty 'hm', staring solemnly into the fire.

"Really, you shouldn't worry yourself," Ondolemar said, frowning down at Farengar's blue hood. "I highly doubt they would go to all of this effort just to kill him."

"Yes, of course. After all," Farengar said turning a disparaging look up at the elf. "Therion being abducted by Thalmor torturers is just another Loredas afternoon for the two of you. But what, pray tell, are you not telling me?" he asked, thinking back on Therion's expression when he alluded to his exile and attempted murder of an immortal. When Ondolemar made no reply, he sighed sharply. "Where did both of you come by this infuriating penchant for mystery?"

"I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you," Ondolemar said with a smile so galling that all at once his relation to Therion was unmistakably clear.

Scoffing, Farengar gave Ondolemar an annoyed look before turning away from the all too familiar expression to stare into the campfire.

"You can ask him, when you see him again," Ondolemar said in a warmer tone. "But it's not my place to say."

Watching Ondolemar take another drink, Farengar wore a thoughtful scowl.

"If we talk, time will pass quicker you know," Ondolemar said, swiftly changing topics. "Tell me how you met Therion."

Ondolemar started as Farengar loudly set his mead aside.

"I am not a talkative person," he said, his eyes flashing.

"This goes back to the not trusting me issue, I presume?" Ondolemar asked, casually drumming his fingers.

"You say you're a double agent, and you want peace between elves and Nords?" Farengar asked, cocking his head.

Ondolemar nodded.

"And how many Nords and Talos worshippers have you tortured, to maintain your cover? How many have you murdered? When General Tullius dragged you into the Moot to have you executed, I was _elated_. The sight of you made my blood boil. And then…" he waved a hand half heartedly, confusion mingling with aggravation. "Therion turned everything around. With poorly pronounced _dovahzul_. Fake poison," he said gruffly, shaking his head. "And suddenly he's thrilled beyond words. To see _you_." Gritting his teeth, he felt his fingers itch with magicka, destruction magic beckoning temptingly to him. "After you carved him up and left him for dead."

Realizing his hands were tightly clenched into fists, he tried to recompose himself. Exhaling slowly, Farengar consciously tried to stop his hands from shaking.

Ondolemar, on the other hand, remained unphased.

"Thank you, for healing him," the elf said after a moment's thought. "He told me what happened in the Thalmor compound that night, after I left. By the time I discovered a visiting dignitary had taken it upon himself to 'interrogate my prisoner'..." Ondolemar quietly folded his hands, eyes unfocused with the recollection. "Before I could resolve the situation, alarms rang out. We were finally under attack, just as Therion and I had been waiting for, but at the worst possible time. There were few options. I couldn't take him with me; he would have died, and it would have defeated our purpose. Nor could I stay. Therion demanded I leave. Saying he was terrified what a 'jester' would do if I stayed… I wasn't sure if he was delirious or using metaphor. He sounded quite literal and _very_ serious.

"In the end, I lingered as long as I could - longer than I should have - to ensure the dossier remained on the table to properly rile Cyrodiil, and to see that the ones who broke my little cousin's ribs were… regrettably and _unavoidably_ 'killed in the crossfire'. Which is how General Tullius managed to catch up to me in the end. When I finally left, I wasn't even sure he was still alive. I had no idea, until Tullius hauled me into your Moot."

Finishing his drink, Ondolemar quietly set the bottle aside.

"But I digress. Yes, I did 'carve him up'. And I've tortured and killed your people. I could tell you in great detail about my good intentions, or the ones I managed to save - all that rot. But my hands are not clean, they never have been. We needed eyes and ears in the Thalmor. Therion asked I do it, and my soul was already deeply tarnished at any rate, so I was glad to spare my colleagues the role. I should, I think, explain some things about myself," he said, unconsciously drumming his fingers once more. "I don't express emotion as others do. In part, this is because acting upset changes absolutely nothing. But, more at the heart of it, properly expressing outward emotions takes a great deal of effort for me. Over the centuries, I have learned to mimic others - better even. I am quite the actor. This 'skill' at being detached outwardly, it makes me ideal for subterfuge."

"Why tell me all of this? It inspires anything but trust," Farengar asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

"Because you seem under the impression I don't care about my cousin, due to my lack of outward concern. And honestly, I could look convincingly worried, but I have no desire to be disingenuous toward you. So, I am simply being myself, Farengar," Ondolemar said, with an open shrug of his palms. "Very few people know me. And there are exactly two people I care about in this world. Therion is one of those two."

Closing his eyes, Ondolemar thoughtfully folded his arms, leaning back against the wall.

"You've changed him, you know."

Momentarily taken aback, Farengar recovered, giving him a look of pure incredulity.

"I know that you don't believe me," Ondolemar replied without opening his eyes to see the wizard's expression of disbelief. "However, you should know that he is different. Or, rather that he is more himself than I've seen him in ages."

Pausing, he opened his eyes, cocking an eyebrow at the skeptical wizard before continuing.

"I know more about Radac than I let on. All of it second hand. From Therion," Ondolemar said, watching Farengar's disbelief wash away, replaced with curiosity. "Sometime ago, after the Great War, our little squadron returned home. By this time, the Thalmor had unopposed control of the country. They had seized control over every corner of Alinor through persecution and holier-than-thou, religious tripe.

"Therion, myself, and our comrades, found employment which put our… particular skill sets to use. And so began my career within the Thalmor.

"Therion, however, made somewhat famous from certain events during the war — affairs which officially did not happen — secured himself as Spymaster. This new line of service placed him directly under Alinor's self-appointed head of state Radac.

"During this period, much of my time was spent in Sunhold. Between training and rising through the ranks of the Thalmor, I saw Therion infrequently. Only on the rare occasions when business brought me to the grand, glittering capital city. And even then, he was always preoccupied.

"At first, this didn't strike me as odd. He has always been a difficult mer to get hold of. And what with juggling the nation's intelligence operations with his own plans of crippling its despotic government, well, I assumed he was swamped.

"Never did it occur to me that he was actively avoiding me.

"Eventually, something didn't sit right with me, and on a whim, I began to do a bit of spying."

Ondolemar paused, looking around, a pained expression on his face. Noticing the fire had gone low, he reached for the poker and began idly stirring the embers.

Farengar frowned impatiently at the interruption as the moment dragged on.

"By the Divines," the wizard muttered, waving a hand at the coals.

Ondolemar blinked in the face of bright red and orange flames as they suddenly leaped skyward like a dancer brought to life. Trying to dispel the after images from the sudden light, he was just going to complain about the heat when the roar of the fire died off, the blaze settling down to a comfortable size.

"You were saying?" Farengar prompted dryly.

Setting aside the poker with a reluctant sigh, Ondolemar exchanged a look with Farengar, the mage staring expectantly, waiting for him to finish his story.

With a short, heavy sigh, the elf reluctantly continued.

"I found out Radac was obsessed with Therion. The Ascendant had a warped sort of love for my cousin. Or as close as the psychotic mer can come to the emotion.

"Where Therion was, or is, concerned, Radac becomes a hypocrite. He disregards his own rules and beloved dogmas. Therion could worship Talos, not that he would, and Radac would merely be put out with him.

"As I continued investigating, I suspected Radac had a…" Ondolemar paused, eyes turning frigid as he chose his words. "Way of coercing Therion. An enchantment. A spell or potion, perhaps."

Farengar's expression changed, his gaze passing straight through Ondolemar.

The elf continued talking, but he was only half hearing him. Knuckles white as snow, Farengar was replaying Therion's voice from memory.

_I've had this_ delightful _potion once myself_ , Therion had said, eyes dark and angry.

As the love potion had stolen Farengar's self-control and freedom of thought, Therion had hid him away before Arcadia could find him.

_Just temporary illusions._ _Created by someone who wants to force you to feel as they do._ Painstakingly weaving fire by his side, Therion had sat, passing the time with him while the antidote tore his heart asunder. The feeling was so wretched, Farengar thought he might die from the pain of it. And after an hour, he had begun to hope he would.

_Alchemical 'love' is not real,_ Therion had snapped vehemently, only last night. When the elf was still within arm's reach. He could still see Therion's amber eyes clearly burning with contempt and rage.

_It's nothing more than mental enslavement_ , he had said, his gold fingers curling into fists.

"Several facts became apparent," Ondolemar continued.

Drawn back from his reverie, Farengar watched the elf begin to rhythmically drum his slender fingers once more in his personal habit.

"First, that Therion could not disobey an order from Radac. Second, that Therion would fight to stay enchanted. And finally, that he could, with great focus, leave out details if not pressed too closely for answers.

"Remarkably, Therion found small ways of opposing Radac, trying to undermine the mer's rule. Leaving out the whole truth whenever possible and somehow carrying on with his original mission, while at the same time, betraying it. He was living two lives, each trying to destroy the other.

"It wasn't until just recently that Therion spoke to me of the times Radac discovered him plotting against him. Radac was infuriated at these 'betrayals' as he called them. He never responded with physical harm. His warped idea of 'love' would not allow it. Instead, each time he asked Therion for names. And then, Radac would always say three words that still haunt my cousin.

"'Slit their throats _._ '

"Of everything Therion endured, being forced to turn his blades to the slaughter of his allies, confidants, and loved ones… was the the most difficult of all. The weight of that burden, nearly brought him to ruin."

Heavy silence descended as Ondolemar fell quiet, stilling his drumming fingers.

"The years Therion spent with Radac changed him. For the worse," Ondolemar said, the fire light ominously catching his gold eyes as he looked up from his hands. "We freed him from Radac's influence, but he was changed. Distant. More calculating. _Colder_."

The elf's voice dropped a pitch, the tone making the back of Farengar's neck prickle.

"Our grand revolution went terribly wrong. In the end, Therion was exiled by Radac, rather than executed. The Thalmor concealed how close we were to succeeding, further convincing the nation that a coup was mere folly. Bowed, but not broken, we rallied. Focusing our efforts here. Beginning with ending the civil war, engineered by the Thalmor."

Furrowing his brow at the claim, Farengar opened his mouth to interrupt, but Ondolemar intervened, waving his hand dismissively.

" _Yes_ , yes, it was engineered. The Markarth Incident, Ulfric, Jarl Igmund, The Reachmen... The Thalmor needed you Nords to kill yourselves. Skyrim _is_ the Empire. Should it fall, the alliances of men would be easily crushed beneath the boot of the Dominion."

The causal certainty with which Ondolemar discussed the total annihilation of the human race, was unsettling to say the least, as Farengar wondered at all the forces which might be conspiring against mankind in the dark. He quickly put a stop to the line of thinking, as he began to suspect too much time spent on that kind of reasoning would leave him huddled outside of Dragonsreach shouting at passersby beside Heimskr.

"Seeing Therion yesterday, it was like…" Ondolemar began thoughtfully, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips as he recalled the memory. "It was like being greeted by an old friend again for the first time in ages. He was… different. Like I had not seen him in… probably a decade or so," he said, raising his brows in surprise at the length of time.

Ondolemar met his gaze, an earnest intensity burning in his gold eyes.

"It's clear that around you, he can't help but be himself," Ondolemar explained. "And that was someone I had never dared hope to see again."

Staring into the fire, Farengar silently mulled the conversation over.

"Get out," he said abruptly, before adding, "The first words I ever said to Therion," in response to Ondolemar's perplexed look. "You asked how I met him."

"Ah," Ondolemar said, as he tried to read the wizard. Nords were a stoic lot. "Romantic," he added. "And what was Therion's reply?" he asked knowingly, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

* * *

"Get out," Farengar said flatly, barely glancing up from his notes to dismiss the visitor before turning back to his alchemy station.

The stranger, a tall Altmer man, folded his arms.

Wearing an odd assortment of armor and covering himself in more furs than most, he seemed at first glance to be a septim-less adventurer, new to Skyrim. Farengar quickly looked around his laboratory to see if he had left anything expensive sitting out.

To his disappointment, rather than leaving, the elf looked about the room, regarding him with interest.

"Pardon my interruption," he said with a charming smile, approaching his desk, barely visible beneath an array of sprawled out books, scrolls, and notes.

Farengar frowned at his expression. It was just a little bit too charismatic; a bit too likeable.

"You're the court wizard, Farengar, I presume?"

Without looking up from the three vials he was combining, Farengar gruffly said, "No, just rummaging through his belongings, wearing his robes, and mixing random vials together. The last few exploded spectacularly, so I'd suggest you leave now."

Craning his head to the side, the stranger looked past Farengar to the alchemy station.

"You're quite convincing as a wizard. I'd almost swear you knew what you were doing," the elf replied quickly. "If you weren't boiling that essence of spriggan sap…" he added.

Farengar's gaze shot to the alchemy station where a bubbling green liquid threatened to spill out of its glass.

Cursing, he quickly extinguished the flame with a flick of his wrist, saving the ingredient before it could over-heat. At the sudden motion, his precarious grip on the three vials faltered, one slipping from his grasp.

Quick as a lightning, a deft hand snatched up the volatile mixture before it could smash apart on the hardwood floor.

Surprised by the sudden, and oddly silent appearance, Farengar accepted the proffered ingredient from the elf, giving him a wary look.

"So, you have some knowledge of the alchemical art," Farengar said, putting the glasses aside.

"I dabble," he answered humbly. "Always nice to meet a fellow alchemist."

"Ah! That reminds me," Farengar exclaimed, picking up a ceramic bowl of blue, glittering dust. "Speaking of alchemists, I have some frost salts for Arcadia. She asked me to obtain them for one of her potions. Would you be so kind as to deliver the frost salts for me? I'm sure Arcadia will provide you some form of recompense."

The Altmer gave him an indignant look, as though this were quite beneath him.

"Do I look like a courier to you?"

Farengar swept a look over him.

"Well, let's see… travel-stained clothes, worn soles, blank and unintelligent expression… Yes, in fact, you do."

There was a look of mild disbelief in his visitor's eyes. A moment later, the corners of his mouth began twitching in the beginnings of a playful grin.

"Oh, my mistake. That will be 10 septims then, sir," he said, taking the frost salts.

Farengar almost smiled despite himself.

"You can see yourself out then? I don't have time for the tedious questions of adventurers. I have important research to be getting back to."

"Oh?" the elf asked, looking intrigued. "What research is that?"

Farengar sighed.

"Yes, that is the perfect example of what I meant," he said, already sounding distracted as he got caught up in his work once more. "I'm sure you'd be more entertained hacking something to death with that sword of yours. The Higher Art is very intricate - best left to scholars and thinkers."

There was an almost imperceptible twitch above the elf's left eye, but he smiled back, this time with an unreadable emotion instead of all of the charm Farengar had come to dislike.

"Of course, forgive my intrusion," he said. "I wouldn't want to distract you from all of that _intricate_ 'magic'. Or whatever you wizards call it. In fact, I really only wandered over here in the first place to inform you of one thing."

"Oh?" Farengar asked, grabbing a stack of scrolls and walking briskly toward his enchanting station. "And what is-" he let out a sharp, sudden cry, dropping his papers as electricity coursed through his body, causing him to drop to one knee.

"You're about to step in your own Shock Rune," the elf said disinterestedly, casually leaned back against the desk, reading one of Farengar's books. "Oh, and I brought you this," he added offhandedly.

Setting the book down, he placed the Dragonstone — the missing cornerstone of Farengar's research — atop an artist's likeness of the fabled tablet.

"Nice meeting you," the elf said, flashing Farengar a gallingly cocky grin as he walked away, pausing momentarily at the door.

"My name is Therion, by the way."

* * *

Ondolemar's thin lips twisted into a thoughtful smile.

"Not everyone can appreciate Therion's unique sense of humor," he said, stroking his chin. "Did you resent him, for letting you walk into your rune?"

"My own sense of humor is also somewhat questionable," Farengar said, arching a brow in consideration. "But, I found it amusing. In an infuriating sort of way."

Ondolemar watched the Nord wizard begin idly tracing a pattern in the air before the fire, the gesture curiously familiar. The mer's eyes widened as the fire began to sway in rhythm with Farengar's hand movements.

"No one in Whiterun — maybe even Skyrim — keeps pace with me. Narcissistic, I'm well aware, but completely true. Every day, I am wretchedly _bored_ ," he said with a deep, loathsome sigh. "Cleverness and wit are not just undervalued in my country; they're treated as weakness or cowardice. A cultural attitude which, to a wizard, is aggravating to say the least."

Moving his hand with artful grace, Farengar began to weave the fire to and fro; forming a difficult pattern that Ondolemar had taught Therion over a century ago, perfectly mimicking his cousin's hand movements.

"Therion was not the first person to keep up with me," Farengar said, delicately balancing the flickering design in his hand, the fire casting a red glow across his face and hood. "But he was the first to surprise me. And once he appeared… well, let's just say I haven't been bored."

The pattern was snuffed out into black wisps of smoke as abruptly the ground began to shake violently. Thrown from his seat, Ondolemar tried to find his feet, watching the small bandit camp fall apart. Helplessly tossed from side to side, he had a distorted vision of bookcases, weapons, and bobbles falling down, while the thunderous commotion deafened his sense of hearing.

The tumultuous shaking ended as quickly as it had begun, allowing him to struggle to his feet, while the rumbling earthquake fading away.

"Are you alright?" he asked Farengar, watching the Nord push his way free from beneath a pile of crates, channeling a shimmering, white ward.

"Nothing that can't be fixed by magic," Farengar replied, dropping the spell shield and wiping a trail of blood from the side of his face.

"Good to hear," a voice said from behind them.

Spinning around, they were greeted by the golden robed figure of Quaranir, the Psijic monk wearing a grim expression on his unshaven face.

"I have located the Dwemer artifact," he said, not sounding pleased by the fact. "Along with the Dragonborn, the Ascendant, and a small army of Thalmor soldiers."

Momentarily interrupted as another earthquake shifted the ground beneath their feet, Quaranir snapped his fingers, levitating the three of them.

"As you can see, the Thalmor have discovered a dangerous use for the artifact," he said with a frown. "I believe they're attempting to literally tear Skyrim apart."

Clapping his hands together, the monk lowered them to the ground as the quake subsided to mere tremors, dying away to a low rumble and slowly fading off into the distance.

"Will the Psijic Order be able to assist us once more, as they did in Solitude?" Farengar asked.

"The Order is… torn on this matter. The Council of Artaeum has not yet reached a verdict," Quaranir said with a heavy sigh, looking weary. "Our duty is to help the world through times of strife through counsel, while observing the divine mystery of change."

"Even if that 'divine mystery' is watching the eradication of mankind, one race at a time?" Farengar asked disapprovingly.

"We are scholars, not soldiers," the monk said evenly. "I cannot force my brothers and sisters to choose, even though I myself cannot ignore the plight of men. Not even the Loremaster can foresee what my interference here may cause. Be it folly or valor, I will not allow Skyrim to fall," Quaranir said solemnly.

Farengar gave him an appreciative look.

"Can you get us down there?" Ondolemar asked, eager for action.

"Yes, that should be relatively easy," Quaranir said slowly, thoughtfully folding his arms and tapping his elbow. "However, the Dwemer artifact is closely guarded. The group of mages, and their layer of protection magic, will have to be dealt with. I believe the best course will be for the both of you to dispatch them and seize the crystal while I stop time and retrieve the Dragonborn. Freezing time leaves me capable of doing precious little else, much less while maintaining it around so many."

"And if your concentration over this 'time freeze' spell falters?" Farengar asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Then I had best teleport us out immediately, rather than leave us surrounded by an army. I can take us back to Artaeum if necessary, but that would leave Skyrim to be destroyed. So, whatever happens, we must obtain the artifact," Quaranir said, weaving a spell of light around them.

"Right, no pressure then," Ondolemar said, drawing his sword.

"Shall we?" Quaranir asked.

Without waiting for a reply, Quaranir spread his hands wide, causing the air to swirl around them. Shimmering momentarily, the three men vanished with a gust of wind.

Gray light greeted Ondolemar's eyes as his vision slowly returned to him. Taking stock of his surroundings, he looked across an enormous stone pavillion into the cavernous underground ruin of Blackreach. Mushrooms the size of trees glowed softly throughout the ruined subterranean city. Left breathless by the scenery, he forced himself to focus his attention on the small army of Thalmor soldiers and mages on every side of him, their glassy eyes staring right through him.

Making his way swiftly between the frozen mer with Farengar by his side, he hurried toward the source of a bright, blue light - a crystal levitated between a group of six Thalmor mages. Focusing on the back of the closest and tallest mage, he drew closer to the hooded figure, gripping his sword tight, and gracefully slipping between frozen soldiers like a specter of death.

Glancing back, he spotted Quaranir's bright robes moving between the Thalmor at the far end of the platform.

Quaranir was passing the the red robed Ascendant, sparing a fearsome glance at the powerful mer as he approached Therion. An unsettling chill appeared to run across his spine as Quaranir momentarily met Radac's frozen eyes and sinister smile.

"Therion?" he heard Quaranir ask in concern, trying to rouse his senseless cousin, the mer hanging dismally by his wrists. Ondolemar focused his gaze back and forth from his quarry and Therion. His cousin's shirt and armor missing, he forced himself to look away from his chest, knowing his handiwork of deep and terrible scars would be found there.

Watching Quaranir draw the knife from his belt and cut the ropes, he was relieved to hear Therion groan as he came around.

"Saving me twice in 24 hours, Quaranir?" he heard Therion ask, opening his eyes. Ondolemar smiled with relief to hear his voice filled with its usual, flippant, humor. "At this rate, I'm going to start to like you." He groaned, grabbing his sides. "I'm alright," he added unsteadily, replying to the Psijic's curious look.

"Certainly," Quaranir said with a frown, Therion grunting as his left arm fell free.

Quaranir looked toward the brilliant crystal and Ondolemar met his eyes. Noting a strain in his gaze, he frowned, wondering how much longer Quaranir could maintain his hold over the flow of time.

"Their artifact appears filled to the brim with dragon souls," Quaranir said, trying to cut Therion's other bond, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

The Dragonborn nodded, running his freed hand raggedly through his disheveled hair, looking drained.

"Not a pleasant process, I assure you," Therion said, sounding pained at the recalled memory. He rubbed his temples, before shaking his head. "But, Radac needed them, so it had to be done."

Quaranir quirked his head to the side.

"Pardon?" the monk asked uncertainly.

Ondolemar stiffened, his blood turning to ice in his veins. Grabbing hold of Farengar, he shoved him toward the mages and the artifact, spinning around and shouting Quaranir's name in warning.

Horrified, he watched the Ascendant's frozen smile broaden, the mer reaching forward and painfully grabbing Quaranir's shoulder.

"Neat trick," Radac said, indicating the frozen room.

Screaming in agony as Radac squeezed his hand tight, the dagger dropped from Quaranir's hand as electricity jolted through him.

Ondolemar was sprinting, watching the monk fall to his knees in agony. Ducking and weaving toward him as fast as he could, he was amazed as Quaranir painfully managed to raise his shaking hands aloft. Teeth clenched hard, he cast a brilliant ball of light into the air before collapsing motionless on the ground, black smoke rising from his golden robes.

Racing against time resuming its normal course, Ondolemar all but flew toward the fallen monk, their slim hope of escape resting with a mer he wasn't certain was even still alive. Color bled back into the world as the Thalmor began to slowly move, and he looked up to see Quaranir's mysterious orb of light shimmer and bob in the air for a split second, before exploding in a radiant shockwave, leaving nothing behind.

Too far away to intervene, he watched with dread as Radac stretched a hand over Quaranir's body. Gripping a ball of gold magicka, an ethereal sword appeared in the Ascendant's hand. Smiling wickedly, Radac drove the shimmering weapon down on his helpless foe.

One inch before the unconscious monk, the blade stopped with a thunderous _crack_ , striking a barrier of solid, white light.

Radac looked up into the eyes of another Psijic, the gold robed Altmer standing between him and Quaranir, glaring at him with a look of adamant focus and determination.

Sneering back at the mer and his barrier, Radac released his bound weapon, letting it disappear. Raising a single hand, brilliant gold magicka spiraled into his outstretched palm, forming a ball of light which he cast against the shield, dust kicking up in its wake as the attack landed with a loud crash.

Furrowing his brow under the strain of Radac's assault, the Psijic Monk held both his hands out, placing the full weight of his strength into his shield, looking with concern at the fallen Quaranir behind him as his ward began to flicker.

Radac's gaze snapped upward as intense flashes of light filled the dark cavern overhead. All around the platform, the empty air above them was becoming dotted with levitating figures. Looking up, Ondolemar stared in awe at the sight of countless members of the Psijic Order, their gold hooded robes reflecting the rich magicka clutched in their hands.

Cracking his knuckles, Radac scowled before throwing another spell against the shield, forcing the Psijic to slide back several feet. Sweat dripped from his chin as he fell to one knee beside Quaranir. Radac tilted his head to the side, a smile on his face as he opened his hand once more, and the Psijic closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.

Tackling him from behind, Ondolemar sent the attack wild, pinning the Ascendent to the ground. Chaos unfolded as the Thalmor and the Psijic Order clashed, hurling spells in all directions, sending flames raining down all around them with fiery explosions. Swords began to clash as, one by one, they no longer had enough magicka to continue the assault with magic.

Radac snarled, trying to escape from beneath the former Head Justicar.

" _Thrynn_ ," Radac hissed, turning his eyes up to meet Therion's. "Slit their throats _._ "

Ondolemar's gaze snapped to Therion's, but he turned away.

Kicking a fallen soldier's sword up into his hand, Therion sliced himself free.

"I'm sorry, cousin," he said looking down at Ondolemar, amber eyes filled with tortured pain.

Drawing in a deep breath, Therion summoned his thu'um.

Ondolemar held the Ascendant up as a shield just in time, blocking the thunderous roar of _RII VAAZ ZOL!_

Radac slackened under the shout, apparently stunned. Leaving the Ascendant with Quaranir's savior, he picked up his sword and sprang forward as Therion did the same, weapons ringing as they locked into combat.

* * *

Craning his neck, Farengar watched Ondolemar take off toward Quaranir, his eyes widening as the monk fell. Farengar sprinted in a mad dash for the Dwemer artifact, watching as color began to bleed over grey hue, signaling that time was returning to normal.

Shoving a Thalmor Mage out of his way, he interrupted the channeling of their barrier and shot a blazing gout of flame from his hand at the what remained of the ward protecting the crystal. The spell fizzled, falling apart like glass shattering against a wall in slow motion. Thrusting his arm through the fragments of magicka, he pushed at the collapsing field, his fingers just barely out of reach of the luminous crystal floating within.

With a disorienting flash, time crashed back into the world, the bright colors and sounds assaulting his senses from all sides as a tight fist suddenly grabbed onto his arm, hauling him back before he could grasp the crystal.

Farengar had been attacked from behind numerous times. Reading books had placed a target on him as a child. As an adult, his wizard's robes had done the same.

Twisting his stance, Farengar forced his assailant into an awkward position, throwing up his arm and kicking the elf's legs out from under him. Sensing someone behind him, he swung hard, and he felt his fist rewarded with a satisfying _crack_ of an elven cheekbone. Just as the blow landed, the elf he had struck loosed a lightning bolt, sending sparks crackling across the skin of his arm as his fist connected. Clutching their face, the Thalmor mage staggered back in surprise, blood pouring from between their hands.

Ducking a sharp spike from an ice spell, Farengar barreled down on another mage, slamming into her as he cast a paralyze spell.

With three of the Thalmor mages temporarily dealt with, he turned toward the remaining three standing behind the crystal. The tallest elf of the group was quicker than the rest, preemptively stepping away the moment he saw Farengar and, after casting a stoneflesh spell, he held up a ward spell in front of him. He only barely managed to withstand the deadly blaze of fire Farengar unleashed, felling his remaining comrades.

Farengar glared up at the tall, lanky elf.

The flames in his hands flickered out as Thalmor soldiers grabbed him by the arms, holding him against a stone pillar.

Bright flashes of light momentarily distracted them, causing Farengar to look up and see an army of Psijic Monks appear in the space above them. He refocused on his current situation after hearing the crackling sound of magicka coming from the remaining mage, who was towering over him wielding deadly, razor-sharp shards of ice in either hand.

Inhaling sharply, he struggled, warily watching as the icy spikes loomed closer.

Drawing back his hands, the mage smirked at him, letting the ice burst forth with a frigid blast.

Tensing, Farengar grit his teeth.

He felt the men on either side of him stiffen, before they gurgled and fell, clutching at the shards impaled in their throats.

The exceptionally tall elf gracefully unclasped his robes and shrugged his thin shoulders, letting his Thalmor regalia fall to the ground.

Snagging the Dwemer crystal as it fell, he tossed it to Farengar who caught it with a dumbfounded look.

"Talamagne," he said, introducing himself with a dignified nod and fiendish smile. "No time for pleasantries, I'm afraid. And if we could go ahead and skip past 'how can I trust you' and move straight to 'we're both going to die so let's fight back to back', that would be marvelous."

Fire and ice rained down from above, making them both duck, luckily causing them to narrowly miss bolts of lightning as a group of Psijic Monks shot through where they had been standing a moment before, striking down a group of Thalmor soldiers.

"Farengar," he replied, cautiously standing up.

Talamagne stiffened as the Nord held a flame spell in his face. He heard the deafening crack of a fireball beside his ear, and felt the scorching heat of the spell. Behind him someone screamed and he heard a sword land on the ground by his feet.

Exhaling nervously, he looked behind to see his would be attacker crumpled in a charred heap on the ground, and nodded his thanks.

"Therion mentioned you," Farengar said, returning the nod. Eyes darting around the battle, he mentally scrolled through the conversation in which Therion had mentioned a friend named Talamagne dragging him out of town and forcing him to drink a cure for his love potion.

"Good things, I trust?" Talamagne asked, moving to stand with his back to Farengar.

"He lamented breaking your arm," Farengar said, holding up a ward spell to deflect a stray arrow.

"Ah, yes. He wasn't in his right mind back then," Talamagne said with a thoughtful frown, blocking a barrage of lightning while Farengar fought off a soldier. "Speaking of Therion, I trust you're an associate of his?" he asked, hearing the soldier's death scream over his shoulder.

"Something like that, yes," Farengar replied. "There are two others here with me as well. A Psijic named Quaranir and a… well, whatever Ondolemar is."

Farengar started in surprise when Talamagne grabbed him by the shoulders, whirling him around.

"Ondolemar is here?!" Talamagne demanded. " _Where?!_ "

A loud cry in _dovahzul_ caught their attention.

_Essence, tear, zombie_ … Farengar translated with a shudder, imagining what such a shout could do. Catching sight of Therion, he stared in disbelief, watching the elf bear down on Ondolemar.

"Farengar, was it?" Talamagne asked quickly. "Radac has Therion drugged with another accursed love potion," he said with a forceful breath as he watched the cousins fight one another. "Tell me, how do you feel about absurdly dangerous plans?"

* * *

Adopting a defensive stance, Ondolemar parried Therion's furious blows, their blades meeting with a thunderous ring. Switching tactics, he thrust forward, going on the offensive, and forcing his cousin to retreat. Pressing his attack, searching for an opening in his cousin's defense, he found himself falling into an old, familiar rhythm.

Century old memories of long summers spent sparring beneath glimmering, crystalline trees came to mind.

Watching Therion's nimble footwork was second nature, although now he was looking for an advantage, instead of something to correct. It was difficult to reconcile the grown mer before him, with the one of the past. He looked nothing like the child with eager, amber eyes; the short elf that had spent his youth chasing after him, mimicking him, idolizing him. And yearning, more than anything else, to impress his older cousin. Most of all with his swordplay, which he had watched Therion practice with fevered devotion from the moment he could hold a sword.

Twisting to one side, Ondolemar only barely kept ahead of a thrust aimed at his heart. Circling behind a soldier, he trapped the startled Thalmor between them, ducking and weaving to use him as a shield. After a moment he heard the soldier grunt and found Therion bearing down on him from above, his cousin agilely leaping over the collapsing soldier. Eyes wide, Ondolemar tried to dodge to the side, but he was a moment too late.

Shouting, he felt hot pain shoot up the side of his leg. With great effort, he awkwardly rolled to his feet, trying to fend off the deadly flash of steel that greeted him. Stumbling back, he haphazardly managed to put his sword up in front of him, barely avoiding a lethal blow. The blade pierced painfully through his shoulder, missing his heart by mere inches. Ondolemar hopped back quickly, tearing himself free of the blade, before Therion could slice him apart. The sword slid free from his shoulder as he leapt backward, causing his chest to begin dripping with blood.

Limping back, he breathed heavily, barely able to hold his sword up between them. His senses were heightened by the adrenaline coursing in his veins. Most acutely, he felt the blood running down his chest and back, and his leg burned with every step he took.

Smiling, he shook his head and began to laugh.

Therion paused momentarily, taken aback.

"You've gotten better," Ondolemar said, shaking his head.

Therion's face contorted in agony as he lunged at Ondolemar, causing him to wince from his wound as he barely deflected the blow.

"I'm proud of you, Therion."

His cousin's jaw tensed. Avoiding his eyes, Therion struck again, this time sending Ondolemar's sword flying across the room, disarming him. He loosed a firebolt from his hand toward Therion's face, forcing him to dodge the flames, allowing Ondolemar time to raise a ward.

"I thought it appropriate to tell you, since I raised you…" he said, feeling his magicka depleting quickly. "In the most irresponsible way a child could be raised. And despite it all," he said with a warm smile, "You turned out great."

Time seemed to slow as it had before under Quaranir's guidance. He could see Therion swing for his throat as his ward faltered, and he somehow managed to smile despite everything, watching as a single tear fell down Therion's cheek.

His trance like state was interrupted by the shock of a familiar voice screaming his name.

"Talamagne…?" he wondered aloud in confusion, looking around.

Mid-swing, Therion was consumed in a roaring blue gale of wind, and he screamed in agony as he was sent hurtling across the cavernous chamber. He slammed into the cavern wall, loosing a bestial cry of pain from his throat, before falling to the ground.

Therion's cries ceased and his eyes fell shut. He slumped unconscious, and Ondolemar found himself remembering to breathe for what felt like the first time in minutes.

Watching the blue wind dissipate, his his eyes followed it back to its source.

A tall figure towered over the fallen Thalmor and Psijic monks.

Shaking his head, he limped across the battlefield. Healing his leg with one hand and deflecting the attacks of random soldiers with the other, he cut his way through the remaining Thalmor, trying to catch a glimpse between the fighting and explosions of magic.

Pushing his way through a cluster of Psijics, Ondolemar found himself staring at Farengar and Talamagne.

"That crystal packs a punch," Farengar said, looking pale.

"It was meant to be channeled by at least _six_ mages," Talamagne muttered weakly, stopping abruptly as he saw Ondolemar. He stared, mouth agape, looking over his wounds.

Ignoring the concerned look, Ondolemar walked up and grabbed him by the shirt. Pulling him down to his height, he kissed him passionately, ignoring the fighting around them.

"I take it you two know each other then," Farengar said wryly.

Talamagne finally pulled away with a grin.

"Who, this old mer?" Ondolemar asked with a chuckle, as Talamagne began healing him. "Never seen him before in my life."

A sudden commotion on the battlefield caught their attention.

Ondolemar craned his head, listening.

Things were suddenly quiet.

" _FUS RO DAH!_ "

The shout tore through them. Scattered and dazed, they were helplessly thrown back at least ten feet. Groaning, Ondolemar saw Psijic Monks laying on the ground all around them. Dazed and unable to move, he watched Radac's red robes appear from the corner of his eye, the mer stepping between the bodies as his soldiers killed the disoriented monks. He silently cursed, spying a group of mages standing behind the Ascendant in black robes adorned with gold ornamentation. The _Mor Mallari_ , his private inner circle of warrior mages. Quaranir had not been the only who had thought to call for reinforcements, he thought dismally.

Pausing curiously, Radac stared down at him. Therion approached behind the Ascendant, loyally following the mage as though he were his shadow.

Barely able to move, Ondolemar looked for his allies.

Farengar was starting to move behind him, the Dwemer crystal still clutched in his hand.

Talamagne laid beside him, not far away.

Numbly, he saw that he was pinned under a collapsed stone pillar, and he gathered his little remaining magicka as he watched blood pool beneath the mer's head.

Shakily, he stretched out his arm, gold light flowing from his hand and into the mer, it's glow as faint as Talamagne's remaining life force.

A boot crushed his arm and Radac loomed over him, laughing in sinister amusement as he struggled to reach Talamagne.

"Who is this one?" Radac asked, pointing at the unconscious mer.

"Talamagne," Therion replied, with an air of professionalism. "A powerful wizard. We served together in the Great War."

Ondolemar recognized he was trying to give the Ascendant enough details that he would not prompt him any further.

Radac snorted.

"I'd forgotten, I have to phrase myself carefully with you. Who is he to _you?_ " he asked, adding, "And who is he to _him?_ This cousin of yours, who raised you."

"Talamagne is a friend and family," Therion said, looking away from his cousin's pleading gaze. "He's Ondolemar's husband."

Radac sneered as Ondolemar snarled up at him, desperately trying to reach Talamagne with his spell.

"And this one, the Nord," Radac said curiously, pointing at the wizard trapped beneath his spell. "All of us Altmers but him. Who is he and what is he doing here?" He glanced at Therion. "That was not rhetorical."

"Farengar Secret-Fire. High wizard of Skyrim," Therion said, Ondolemar listening to him carefully feign disinterest. "I don't know why he's here."

"Hm," Radac said thoughtfully. For a moment it seemed as though he were satisfied with his answer.

"Who is he to you?" he seemed to ask on a whim.

Therion's mouth twitched.

Radac looked at him in surprise.

"Who is he to you?" he repeated, impressed at his resistance.

Therion looked down at Farengar, appearing unable to breath.

"Wait," Radac said, quirking a brow. "Is this Nord… in love with you?"

"I don't know," Therion answered quietly.

"...do you love him, Thrynn?" Radac asked in disbelief, staring at him intently.

Trying to hold his tongue, Therion looked away, before uttering a pained, "Yes."

Radac sighed heavily.

There was a loud snapping of fingers as he released the ward spell pinning Farengar.

Meeting Therion's gaze, Radac glowered at him in disapproval.

"Kill him," he commanded, the words simple, but a seething anger roiling in his tone as he looked at the Nord in blue robes.

Wordlessly, Therion stepped forward, watching Farengar rise to his feet. There was no point in pleading with Radac, he knew all too well. It made his commands more sinister. Steeling himself, he ignored the pounding in his head and sick dread in his chest. He had to focus to make the kill as quick and painless as possible.

Farengar was observing him with keen, watchful eyes, following his every step.

Drawing his sword, he paced cautiously around the wizard, while subtly reaching one hand behind his back.

In the blink of an eye Therion launched a dagger with pinpoint accuracy at Farengar's forehead.

There saw a flash of light and the sound of steel hitting stone as Farengar deflected the projectile with a ward spell. His sea green eyes swelled as he saw a black blur appear in front of him faster than he could react, shattering his ward with the quick thrust of a sword.

Warm lips met his as cold steel pierced his heart.

The pain within his chest was immeasurable, but he ignored it and the icy grip on his limbs, willing himself to make the most of every moment.

Summoning magicka from the Dwemer artifact clutched tight in his left hand, the immense power lit his arm aglow with searing blue flames and gave his eyes a surreal glow. Gripping his hand into an iron fist the crystal made a faint _crack_. Blinding rays of light shone through the fracturing artifact, before it shattered in a fiery explosion.

Therion and Farengar stood together at the center of innumerable dragon souls, the freed orbs floating around them like constellations of stars. Watching in fascination, the wizard saw the souls begin swirling into the Dragonborn's body with a roar of white light and wind.

Farengar began to cough and withdrew from their kiss, the movement giving him a clear view of Therion's face.

Forcing his weakening body to obey, he raised his arms and with faltering hands, tried to wipe the tears from the Altmer's gold cheeks.

"I... love you, Thrynn Lor'ellion."

He only barely managed to say the words before darkness and confusion consumed his mind. Therion lowered him to the ground carefully as he lost the strength to stand.

The elf watched as the life faded from Farengar's eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he felt his body begin to burn as the rage swelled inside of him.

He unleashed a terrifying scream of pain and agony, causing thunderous reverberations to echo throughout the massive cavern, sending Blackreach into a violent convulsion, shaking it to its very core.


	22. Oblaan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found an amazing Farengar picture of what he looks like with lots of HD mods.  
> I’ve always pictured him [ this way](http://miynx.tumblr.com/image/118674990192).  
> 

The mer within Blackreach fell to their knees, desperately trying to cover their ears against the painful roar.

With his arms shaking and his head thrown back, Therion's cry finally transformed into heavy, ragged breaths. Planting one foot violently on the ground, the dragon souls he was absorbing froze in mid-air. The brilliant, white wind hung suspended around him in an aura, quietly chanting words in the dragon tongue, tossing his gold hair in its wake.

His amber eyes glowed with an ethereal light as he stalked across the platform, with molten cracks forming in the stonework beneath each step.

Therion and Radac's eyes met and the Ascendant fell back several steps in awe. The Dragonborn's gaze was as feral as his thoughts, reduced to torrential rage and torment.

Thalmor soldiers sprang to their feet, bravely regrouping and forming a defensive line. Swords drawn, they rushed Therion.

The Dragonborn stared through them with cold indifference.

" _FUSK!"_ The word for throw left his lips as the vague idea formed in his mind.

The pillar lying atop Talamagne launched forward, slamming into the soldiers and crushing them with a terrible _crunch_ , leaving Therion's path to Radac clear. Through it all, his gaze never faltered from Radac's bewildered eyes.

 _Shred_.

" _TROF!"_

Radac staggered back as deep claw-shaped marks ripped across his chest. Therion's eyes narrowed to slits as he watched the immortal's body quickly heal, leaving no trace of the wounds.

_Tear. "LUV!"_

_Rip. "VAAZ!"_

_Shred. "TROF!"_

Long marks raked across Radac's red robes in jagged, criss-crossing patterns. Staggering back under the barrage, he looked at Therion warily, uncertain if he wanted to engage him.

The Thalmor leader ordered his remaining mages to open a portal as he raised his hands, slamming a bright ward down on Therion. Using all of his might, he was relieved to see Therion's knee finally begin to bend under the crushing attack, causing Therion to pause in his steps, before forcing him to break his wild gaze away from Radac.

Enraged, the Dragonborn snapped his head back to glare at the barrier.

 _SHATTER, DESTROY_. The vague thoughts were wild and senseless.

 _"KREN AL!"_ he bellowed into the air _._

Eyes wide, Radac watched his gold ward fracture, before shattering into small bursts of light sent hurdling toward him, forcing him to clutch his head as his magic backfired. He only just barely managed to catch sight of Therion between his fingers, as the Dragonborn shrugged off the barrier with a bestial snarl, before advancing toward him once more.

His portal to Alinor nearly open, Radac retreated to stand safely beside it and behind the dark robed _Mor Mallari._

The mages stepped forward, channeling spells of fire, ice, and lightning in unison.

Therion didn't flinch, his predatory expression ever fixated on Radac as he vanished beneath the barrage of spells. After the mages had thoroughly burnt, shocked, and frozen Therion's last known location, they cautiously lowered their hands, watching intently as the smoke cleared.

After a tense moment, they drew in a breath as a white aura emerged. Therion appeared unharmed, chanting, " _UNVIIG."_

They hastily resumed their spellcasting, but every one of was deflected effortlessly as the ominous figure drew ever closer.

"What in Oblivion..." one mage whispered, a shiver racing across their spine as they met Therion's terrifying gaze. The Dragonborn looked through them as though they were made of glass, barely noticing their presence.

_Die._

_"DIR."_

At his command, the line of mers' eyes widened drastically. Each of the _Mor Mallari_ collapsed lifelessly on the ground.

The remaining Thalmor quickly dropped their weapons, falling back with terrified terrified whispers, Auriel's name on their lips as they implored his protection.

Radac's portal finally opened, and with a nervous glance back at Therion, he turned and ran.

" _TIID DIIN."_

Radac's view of Alinor's glittering throne room was suddenly obscured by scarred, gold flesh as Therion impossibly appeared, blocking his path to the portal.

_Essence, mortal, tear._

" _RII JOOR VAAZ!"_

Radac looked at him in confusion as nothing happened.

" _FAAZ!"_

The word evoked a feeling Radac had all but forgotten as for the first time in over a millennia, he felt pain. Grabbing his chest, his face was contorted by the terrible and unfamiliar sensation as he staggered on his feet.

" _AUS!"_

His pain intensified by tenfold at the word. Surprise colored his face as he heard screaming and realized that he was the source.

" _VAARNUFAAZ!"_

Therion's savage cries were inescapable, each word increasing his pain greater than the last. The shouts echoed in his ears, sounding more beast than mer. The onslaught continued mercilessly, until he felt himself being brutally thrown on the ground beside the dead Nord.

" _DRUN MOK RIGIR!_ " Therion snarled.

At Radac's blank expression, he shook his head in frustration.

With a look of painstaking concentration, he growled, enunciating each word.

" _BRING. HIM. BACK."_

The way he spoke was odd, every word sounding strange and unfamiliar to his tongue, as though he could barely grasp how to speak Tamrielic.

The Ascendant swayed and staggered, before rising to his full height in a display of defiance.

"You cannot command me!" he snapped, replacing his mounting fear with anger. "I am eternal! You are enslaved to _me!"_ Radac stared into Therion's glowing eyes and pitiless gaze, hearing the sounds of the dragon tongue whispering aura. "What are you?!" he snarled in bewilderment.

Therion regarded him with frigid, glazed eyes, making Radac wonder if he could understand him.

The Dragonborn craned his head to the side, as though considering. The gesture looked odd and unnatural on him, and his movements looked as though he were experimenting, uncertain of his body.

"I will not raise this _human_ ," Radac said with contempt.

Therion's upper lip curled, whether in understanding or in response to his tone, he was unsure.

"Do your worst," Radac sneered, splaying his hands in a welcoming gesture. "Your precious _Nord_ ," he said with disgust, "is dead. So do as you will, but there is nothing you can do to me that will change that fact," Radac said with a victorious smile.

There was a tiny flicker in Therion's expression. A hint of his usual bravado, which made Radac's gut sink with foreboding. The sinister look in Therion's glowing eyes intensified his dread.

 _Rend!_ " _KRUZ_!"

_Devour! "DU!"_

_Soul! "Sil!"_

The words struck Radac making him shudder. A terrifying feeling of helplessness and mortality filled his bones. From nowhere, a white wind sprang to life around him, whipping in all directions.

A scream of surprise and agony tore from his throat as his body began to glow, parts of his skin started disintegrating.

"NO!" he cried in disbelief, looking at his arms. "I AM IMMORTAL!"

Therion held out his hand, watching Radac burn away with dispassionate eyes, the mer's essence gathering into a gold orb at the center of his palm. Radac disappeared in one final scream, leaving a skeleton behind.

The gold soul shined in Therion's hand as he closed his fingers into a fist around it, absorbing it into his body.

* * *

"What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honored dead?"

Tsun stepped down from the bridge of whalebone to stand before the Nord in blue robes. Standing at twice his height, the God of Trials towered over him as he did all men. The stranger took note of the ancient axe strapped across his bare back, nearly as large as himself.

"I seek entrance to the Hall of Valor," he replied, looking at the building over the bridge.

"By what right do you request entry?" Tsun asked him, his challenge ringing across the landscape of otherworldly beauty.

"By right of cleverness and wit," the Nord replied proudly without hesitation, sea green eyes challenging him to disagree. "I was High Wizard of Skyrim. A scholar and seeker of knowledge."

"Well met, mage of Skyrim," Tsun said in a welcoming voice, his bearing suddenly friendly. "The Nords may have forgotten their forefathers' respect for the Clever Craft, but your comrades throng this hall. Here in Shor's house we honor it still."

The wizard seemed surprised by his reply as he was left momentarily speechless, a mix of emotions passing across his face.

"By decree of Shor none may pass this perilous bridge," Tsun continued, flexing the powerful muscles of his broad chest, "'till I judge them worthy by the warrior's test."

Reaching over his shoulder he hefted the ancient axe in his hands, grinning with anticipation. The mage's hands lit up with flame, casting a deep red glow across his shrouded face as he dropped into a ready stance.

A sudden gold light made them pause. The mage shielded his eyes from the brilliance which surrounded him as he heard Tsun's deep, resounding chuckle.

"Till next time, son of Skyrim," he said, putting away his axe. "The hero of the dragon blood calls. Eagerly shall I await our battle for another day."

* * *

Farengar opened his eyes, staring into light as bright as the sun. Gasping, he filled his lungs with air and sat up, heart beating wildly in his chest. Mind racing, he looked around in confusion. His thoughts were muddled and confused, and he felt as if he'd been abruptly awoken from a deep sleep.

He found Talamagne smiling at him, the lanky wizard looking extremely pale. Ondolemar spared him a curious look, but seemed more focused on holding onto his husband as though he were made of glass. As the former justicar channeled a continuous stream of healing magic into Talamagne, he looked uncertainly at Therion.

Still in a daze, Farengar looked up at the elf, confused by his appearance as much as he was by everything else.

Groaning, Farengar shook his head, trying to make sense of everything.

" _Los hi bek?"_ Therion asked in flawless _dovahzul_ , further confusing the Nord.

"I... am fine. I think," Farengar answered, glancing at Talamagne and Ondolemar for answers.

"Can you understand him?" Talamagne asked eagerly, sitting up. Wincing, he touched his head and immediately laid back against Ondolemar once more, eyes shut tight in pain. "We've been unable to understand a word since he got like this," Talamagne mumbled through grit teeth as Ondolemar intensified his healing magic with a thin frown.

"Yes, I understand him. He's speaking the dragon tongue," Farengar said, climbing to his feet.

 _"Nid fen ahraan hi einzuk,_ " Therion said solemnly, holding his gaze.

"What did he say?" Talamagne asked curiously, his words slurring slightly.

"That nothing would hurt me again," Farengar muttered looking troubled. Placing a hand on his robes, he traced a finger through the blood stained hole at his chest and across a thin scar. "Did I die?" he asked slowly, a disturbed look on his face.

Therion's warm hand on his cheek made him look up at the Altmer. All at once the matter of his death seemed a distant concern, as he examined the Dragonborn's strange expression and glowing eyes.

"What's happened to you?" Farengar asked in bewilderment, searching his face and finding only faint traces that were distinctly Therion beneath a mask that was distinctly not.

"Short version," Ondolemar said, wiping the sweat from his brow as he paused his healing efforts. "You broke the artifact and released over a hundred dragon souls or so, according to Talamagne. He was counting when the Thalmor harvested them. My assumption is they tried to flood Therion all at once, and well..." he raised a hand, indicating the glowing Dragonborn. "After that he hunted down Radac and... ate his soul, perhaps? I'm a bit hazy on the details, but the bastard is a skeleton and apparently my cousin is now capable of resurrecting the dead. And could probably heal his cousin-in-law with nary a thought, if he'd be so inclined," Ondolemar said sharply looking at Therion who appeared to either not hear him or ignore him.

"Therion, _vahraan_ Talamagne," Farengar said thoughtfully, nodding toward the tall elf.

After tilting his head in consideration, Therion placed a hand over Talamagne, gold light illuminating his hand. When he removed it, Talamagne opened his eyes and sat up, the deathly pallor of his skin gone.

Ondolemar carefully examined Talamagne, sighing with relief.

Therion returned to Farengar, gathering him into a tight, possessive embrace, murmuring _dovahzul_ in whispers.

"So, my cousin thinks he's a dragon?" Ondolemar asked uncertainty, watching Farengar squirm in his grasp, uncomfortable at the sudden display of affection.

" _RAH,_ " Therion said, making Ondolemar jump at the sudden, reverberating word.

"God," Farengar supplied wryly with a sigh. "Your cousin believes he's a dragon god."

"Well," Talamagne smirked, looking at Therion's strange glow and the breadth of destruction around him, "I for one, am inclined to believe him."

"Would the dragon god kindly release me?" Farengar said with irritation, trying to get out of Therion's arms.

" _Nid_ ," Therion said, holding him tighter.

"Well, we don't need a translation for that one," Talamagne chuckled. "Is he capable of resurrecting the Psijics?"

Farengar grunted several protests in _dovahzul_ requesting Therion to let go before giving up and relaying the question.

" _Zu'u ulaak nid fah fahliil ahrk muz,_ " Therion muttered indifferently, removing Farengar's hood and curling his fingers in his hair.

"That was a lot of words and very little resurrecting," Ondolemar said, drumming his fingers, thoughtfully watching his cousin.

"Yes, this is becoming more worrisome than entertaining by the second," Talamagne said, frowning down at Therion. "We need to find a way to fix him. What did he say, Farengar?"

"That he cares nothing for elves and men," Farengar growled, giving Therion a disapproving look.

"That certainly sounds like dragon reasoning," Talamagne said, shaking his head in disappointment. "I do hope this isn't permanent," he added, looking sadly at Therion.

"Perhaps we could- Do you _mind?!_ " Farengar snarled indignantly, trying to pry Therion off as he nuzzled his face, inhaling deeply beside his ear as though he were drinking in his scent. "You are _not_ a dragon!"

Talamagne poorly stifled a laugh in a fake cough, before doing his best to look suddenly fascinated by the mushrooms overhead.

"Go easy on him," Ondolemar said looking sympathetically at his cousin. "He lost it when you died, Farengar. He's clearly still out of his head from it."

Farengar sighed, looking up at the powerful elf. It was hard to imagine Therion, of all people, as bewildered or lost, least of all when he was literally glowing with incredible power. He thought back to the wild eyed Dragonborn he had pinned so long ago at Solitude's inn, recalling that even Therion had his limits. Stifling his protests for the elf's benefit, he grudgingly accepted the affectionate attention.

"Right," Ondolemar said. "Now tell him he's not a god and to get to work raising these poor mer from the dead."

"I think," Farengar said, watching Talamagne smirk at the comment, "I'd have greater success, if I did not express it all in one sentence. Put that way, I have a difficult time believing it myself." Turning to Therion he repeated his question, asking if he could return the monks to life. " _Vis hi drun faal_ Psijics _rigir?_ "

" _Geh,"_ Therion replied disinterestedly.

"He can, but he's being stubborn," Farengar explained.

"Well, if we cannot appeal to Therion, can we appeal to his, ah, dragon nature?" Talamagne asked. "At the moment he seems to be the personification of a hundred dragons, give or take."

Farengar mulled over the idea for a moment. Using his most persuasive tone, which he normally reserved for the tedious occasions on which he had to engage politicians and dignitaries, he said, " _Faal_ Psijic Order _los suleykaar_." The word for 'power' had an immediate effect, catching Therion's interest. " _Nust los hin grah-zeymahzin. Voth niin hi los muliik._ "

 _The Psijic Order is powerful. They are your allies. With them you are stronger._ He reflected on his words, double checking his translation.

A deep rumbling sound of consideration came from Therion's chest.

" _Nii huvut pah do dii mul_ ," he said uncertainly. " _Zu'u fen kos gesahlo._ "

"It requires all of my strength," Farengar translated for the Altmer. "I will be weakened."

Ondolemar placed a hand on Therion's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

Talamagne nodded his support.

" _Mu fen jaaril hi_. We will protect you," Farengar promised.

The Dragonborn let out a heavy sigh. Closing his eyes, he furrowed his brow in concentration. The aura of souls around him whipped up in a sudden gale of wind, before suddenly branching off in numerous directions, the white orbs each finding a Psijic to hover over. One by one, lights drifted down like glowing snow, settling onto the monks and absorbing into their bodies, followed by a sudden gold light flaring in every direction, blinding the three men.

Farengar felt Therion sag and quickly supported his weight as the elf slumped.

When the after images finally faded and he could see once more, he found Therion was no longer glowing. His whispering aura had gone and his hair was once again obeying the whims of gravity.

The Psijic Monks stirred one by one, rising to their feet with shared looks of confusion.

Quaranir looked the most surprised, as he found himself surrounded by his brethren. Particularly Nerien. The monk lay over him, having tried to protect him to the very end. He looked at Nerien with relief and gratitude as the mer sat up.

With a deep throated groan, Therion raised his head and opened his eyes, looking down at Farengar.

The mage started as he found a tender hand on his cheek.

"I killed you…" Therion said in a choked whisper.

Farengar's heart ached at the look of devastation on his face.

Smiling, Farengar wiped away a tear rolling down his cheek.

"You tried," the mage said with a gentle chuckle. "But I was determined to collect on our bet as to which of us would die first. I win."

Despite his best efforts not to, Therion couldn't resist laughing.

Wrapping Farengar up in his arms, he kissed him deeply, the Nord's warm lips sending a peaceful wave throughout his body.


	23. Epilogue

Therion vaulted across the gap between rooftops, breaking into a run the moment his feet touched marble. Ahead of him, Talamagne sprang over a decorative arch, twisting gracefully in the air, before landing on the other side and sprinting up to join Ondolemar at the front. His cousin motioned toward the crystal statue of Auriel in the empty town square below just before dropping over the edge, reappearing on the outcropping below in a somersault.

Grinning happily, Therion leapt out into the warm night air, following after him.

From the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of a hulking figure bearing down on him. Nimbly, Therion twisted back a step, letting them hit the wall where he had stood a moment before. About to draw his sword, he paused as the broad figure began to chuckle.

"Nearly had you," the large mer said cracking their enormous knuckles and turning around.

"Aran!" Therion exclaimed in surprise, sheathing his weapon with a grin. They shook hands and clasped each other by the shoulder.

"Glad to see you haven't gotten rusty," Aran said with a nod of approval.

"Skyrim was many things," Therion said solemnly, looking over his old friend, "but a place where a man loses his edge, was not one. Ondolemar didn't tell me you were coming."

Aran scratched his beard, examining Therion with his good eye.

"Would have ruined the surprise," he said in his usual gravelly, no-nonsense tone. "How are you Thrynn? Or, is it Therion these days?"

"Therion Adamonest," he said. "I am well, thank you for asking. How is Alinor's captain of the guard?"

"Godsdamned terrible," Aran barked, folding his arms. "The city's in chaos since some cheeky bastard killed off that son of a bitch Radac."

Therion shook his head.

"So, they filled you in then," he said, glancing down at Ondolemar and Talamagne.

"Sorry I missed the fun," Aran said with a nod. "You can bet we'll root out every last Thalmor hiding in the city. Mark my words."

"Oh, they sound quite doomed," Therion said sincerely with a laugh. "If you need help, you know where to find us. I must say though, for someone who hated the idea of joining the guard, you sound like you've grown accustomed to it."

"After a lifetime of tearing cities apart, it's rewarding to hold one together. And more of a challenge, too. Thinking of giving it a try?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Too early to say," Therion said deflecting the question and smiling at the large mer.

"Hmph. Never a direct answer with you. I haven't missed that," he said. "But I have missed you. It's good to have you home. Therion."

"It's good to be back," Therion replied whole-heartedly.

Aran followed him down the building, his movements surprisingly graceful for his size and gruff appearance.

"It's been awhile since the four of us were together," Talamagne said, smiling around the circle.

"Too long," Ondolemar agreed, thoughtfully drumming his fingers. "Although, one of our number showed up unannounced in Skyrim, despite agreeing to stay in Alinor."

Talamagne shrugged.

"I saw an opportunity to join the mages bound for Skyrim and heard they had captured the 'Dragonborn', so I took it. How was I to know you'd freeze time and try to stab me in the back? In the future, if you see an eight foot tall wizard, at least check if it's me first. Problem solved."

"Agreed. The next time we break the laws of reality, we'll make sure not to stab anyone in the back without checking their identities first," Therion said. "Have I mentioned lately," he added, looking up at his friends, all standing at least seven foot plus, "How much taller I felt back in Skyrim?"

His height of six-foot-five had been praised as tall by Nord standards.

A yawn escaped him before he could stifle it.

"We can meet again tomorrow. You should get some rest," Ondolemar offered, giving him an appraising look. "I can handle the palace tomorrow. Take a day off."

Therion sighed, exchanging a look with Talamagne who simply shrugged, staying out of it.

"I'm fine, cousin," Therion insisted with a smile. "Radac's dead. The Thalmor are all being hunted down. I could _fly_.

"I am very tired, though," he admitted as another yawn betrayed him. "However, you've been through as much as I have. If you're going to straighten out this mess with the princes and the magistrates tomorrow, then nothing in Oblivion will stop me from going with you."

Ondolemar glanced toward Talamagne who merely shrugged again as he had done with Therion.

"I know better than to get involved when you're both determined to take care of the other," Talamagne said. "I'd say don't push yourselves, but I'd have more luck talking to Auriel's statue, I'm sure."

"Not to interrupt this domestic moment, but it's time I made for bed," Aran said, clasping hands with them each in turn. "I'll see the three of you tomorrow, I'm sure. The rest of the _Laloria Malatar_ will be ready to help in a pinch as well."

Aran paused and turned around one last time, the large grin on his face causing his sightless left eye to scrunch up.

"I've missed this," he said. "Damn, it's good having the two of you back. Be safe."

Waving over his shoulder, he walked off down the street.

Therion looked at Ondolemar and Talamagne, unable to contain his smile.

"It's good to be home."

After they had finished embracing one another, they parted ways, with Ondolemar and Talamagne heading toward their home in the north part of town. Therion made his way across the rooftops, at a slower pace now that he was alone, taking in every detail as he went, admiring the tall, crystal spires he had never imagined he would see again. Radac was dead, freeing him from the curse of exile. Everything felt surreal, as if at any moment he might wake and find he was dreaming.

The strangest sight of all was the grand estate at the west end of town. Carefully climbing across the _leyes_ tree at the back, he made his way along the smooth, crystal bark until he was over the roof. Dropping down, he quietly walked around to the sole balcony emitting light.

Silently, he lowered himself onto the landing, picked the lock on the door, and let himself inside.

His room was – somewhat disturbingly – the same as he had left it. In many ways, it felt like the only thing untouched by the passage of time in the years he had been away.

Smiling, he ran his hand across the familiar, soft spines of his books. Removing one of his favorites, he walked out to the terrace and opened it to a random page. The warm, fragrant night air hummed, filled with countless sounds he had forgotten. The usual drone of insects, the rustling of the trees, the creaking tree branches, all of them filled him with a sense of calm and peace he had long forgotten.

Setting the book down, he looked up at the sky, expecting to see the aurora but finding only stars and the twin moons. For a moment he could smell pine and warm hearths, and he could almost see chimney smoke creeping across his view of breath taking snow capped mountains, and endless, lush, green forests.

A soft _plink_ of glass from the next room made his ears perk up.

Softly opening the door, he crept inside his laboratory and over to the desk.

"Still up?" he whispered, although his words seemed to pass through Farengar, who was caught up with something on the table.

Therion waited patiently, lightly tapping Farengar's desk with his fingers.

Eventually, the engrossed mage looked up at him, his eyes instantly filled with surprise, barely avoiding spilling his potions over the book he was enthralled in. A wide array of alchemical ingredients, most of which were indigenous to Alinor, were spread out across the top of the desk. Many of them possessed luminescence, and their natural glow of magic pulsed softly.

"When did you come in?" Farengar asked, jotting down some notes and setting aside his work, adding, "I think I'm close to a stopping point for lunch."

"I just got here," Therion said with a smile, admiring the spark of excitement shining in Farengar's eyes. "And, it's technically morning."

"Ah," Farengar said, rubbing his eyes and wiping the sweat from his brow, "That might explain why I'm so tired." Despite the frost runes on either side of his chair, he looked miserably overheated, and his pale face was flushed bright red beneath his blue hood.

Farengar looked inquisitively at a parcel that was dropped atop his stack of papers and books.

"I picked this up for you in town," Therion explained as Farengar unwound the packaging's twine. "I don't own anything blue that I could lend you, and I thought the color suited you."

The Nord held up two garments with a thoughtful frown. Wordlessly, he stared at an exquisitely soft, thin, blue tunic and short, tan trousers.

"You've been dying in your robes," Therion prompted, and, when he made no reply, wondered aloud at his odd expression. "Do you not like it?"

"Hm? Oh, no. Thank you. They seem very high quality. Probably too nice for me, even," Farengar added, recasting his dying frost runes. "I'm just very used to wearing wizard's robes." He paused, looking over his thick, blue garb. "They hold a lot of meaning for me."

Therion leaned thoughtfully back against the desk.

"Is that why I have to all but beat you every time I want to take your hood down and look at you properly?" Therion asked, leaning forward and sweeping Farengar's hood back with a grin.

Farengar sighed at the sensation of cool air around his head. Channeling magicka into his hands, he touched the back of his neck with frost covered fingers.

"We're in Alinor, not Skyrim. Practically everyone here can cast magic. Robes here don't scream 'I'm a wizard' so much as they say 'I happen to like robes'," Therion said, mildly distracted by the beads of water rolling down his toned neck, finding the very sight incredibly enticing. "Speaking of Alinor, what do you think of my homeland so far?"

"You mean, have I considered your proposal to stay," Farengar said. Reaching to the bottom of the stack of papers, he produced a letter. "Strangely, just after I mentioned my reluctance to abandon my post with Whiterun and the High Court, I received some correspondence, from High King Balgruuf, no less."

"Don't look at me," Therion said, holding up his hands. "I didn't tell him to write you anything. I only told him I wished you would remain here, but I would accept if you preferred to return to Skyrim. What did he have to say?"

"That he would be delighted to have an ambassador to the Summerset Isles he could trust, if I decide on staying," Farengar said, thoughtfully tapping the letter on the table.

"It's a difficult decision," Therion said. "I know how much loyalty you feel toward Balgruuf. He's like family, and a huge responsibility has just been thrust upon him. And you're the High Wizard of Skyrim. It's not easy to abandon a position like that."

Farengar gave him a wry look.

"You're the _Archmage_."

Therion raised his eyebrows.

"Hm," he said simply with a frown, causing Farengar to stare at him in disbelief.

"You forgot?!"

"Not... _entirely_ ," Therion said, stroking his chin. "I've just had more pressing concerns. I have a lot of things in motion at the moment to rebuild Alinor. Which is why I cannot leave, even if you choose to return to Skyrim."

Therion made a mental note to send correspondence to a multitude of organizations in Skyrim in the morning. Particularly the Thieves' Guild and Dark Brotherhood.

"I very much like it here," Farengar admitted with a fond look around the room. "The land lives and breathes magic," he added, looking across the glowing plants spread out before him. His eyes fell to the closest thing to him, a merrily burning red rose. Beyond that, was a black mushroom, which seemingly created a dark cloud over itself. Beside those were several plants that appeared to be made of some sort of living metals and gemstones, while others at the end of the table felt like paper, and were just as delicate.

"The palace library is filled with countless books I wish to read," Farengar continued, leaning back in his chair. "And no one here looks derisively at me for using magic, although they do occasionally look at me for being human. But never for casting spells. My robes do not cause a stir. And I must admit, I was loath to become High Wizard at all, as my duties were increased a hundredfold. While, as an ambassador I could be left to my own devices, affording me more time for research. But, I suppose, apart from all that," he said giving Therion a faint smile, "there is the small matter that, no matter what the circumstances, even if I loathed every single thing about the Summerset Isles, I would still choose to remain here with you."

Grinning, Therion leaned down. Pressing his lips against Farengar's, he slowly loosened the ties of the Nord's robes with nimble fingers.

"You'll find it much more pleasant without your robes on, I assure you," Therion murmured against his parted mouth, gradually drawing the garment down across his shoulders. His gold lips moved to Farengar's neck, devouring the tempting flesh there, before working down. With each inch of clothing removed, he ravished the Nord's exposed flesh.

Warm hands eagerly roved across his hips, finding their way lower and tightly squeezing his backside.

Farengar began roughly teasing him, running his hands over the hard cock straining within his leather trousers through the material and eliciting a deep groan against his shoulder from Therion. The elf's breath hitched as Farengar suddenly pulled him off his feet and down into his lap, where he felt the other man's length grind against him.

Therion responded eagerly, ripping his robes open completely, while at the same time, he felt Farengar's hands on his belt buckle. He heard the sound of leather being whipped aside and his belt landing on the floor, before suddenly finding that clever fingers were stroking him hard through the material of his pants while at the same time unbuttoning them.

At the same moment that the last fastener came undone, Farengar shoved him back to sit on the desk, wrenching his pants off.

While Farengar removed the last of his clothing, Therion channeled magicka to his hand, casting telekinesis. A glass vial from the shelf across the room flew toward his waiting hand.

With a mischievous, lustful grin, Farengar intercepted the bottle, before shoving him down onto the stack of books. Removing the glass stopper, he poured lubricant into his hand.

Therion's eyes rolled back as he felt the wizard begin to tease him, slowly working slick fingers in and out of him. Farengar toyed with him for what seemed like an eternity, delighting in every sound he made, and never tiring of watching him writhe on the desk.

Finally, he could take no more.

"Fuck me, damn you," he growled, desperate to come.

Farengar chuckled, stroking himself with oil while nudging a spot inside Therion with his thumb that made the elf throw his head back against the desk, growling something in Ayleid.

In a daze, Therion felt Farengar pull his hips to the edge of the table and press inside of him. The warm Nord moved slowly, pausing to let him adjust, handsome sea green eyes intently watching his face.

After he was relaxed, Therion moved himself experimentally, delighting in the delicious sensation of the wizard.

Farengar began thrusting hard at a slow, even pace.

Therion's cock jumped at the sudden touch of the Nord's warm hand stroking down his length, before massaging his balls. Clenching his teeth, he barely held back from coming as the wizard gripped him tight and began pumping him in time with the fevered thrusts of his hips.

Farengar did not let up, pushing himself deeper, and stroking him harder as he continued to push into him faster.

Therion groaned, unable to resist any longer. Finishing with a shout, he fell limply back on the desk, seeing stars.

The sight and sound made Farengar come undone. With a final thrust, he buried himself in the elf. His toned, stomach muscles flexing, he finished with a deep groan of satisfaction escaping his throat.

Farengar supported himself on fists planted on either side of Therion's sweat slicked gold hair, the two of them catching their breaths in short gasps.

"You were right," Farengar said at last, looking tired and thoroughly satisfied as he eased himself back and collected the new clothes. "I'm much more comfortable outside of my robes."

Therion chuckled, staring up at the ceiling as he recovered his strength.

With both of them thoroughly exhausted, they extinguished the candles and made their way to bed.

Farengar laid down in the nude above the blanket while Therion crawled beneath a thin sheet.

"Do you miss Skyrim?" Therion asked after a short while, looking at him in the faint glow cast by the twin moons. He fervently wished for Farengar to remain, but not if it came at the cost of his happiness.

"There is so much here to discover, I hadn't even stopped to think on it," Farengar said honestly. "I would not be adversed to returning there this time next year. Summer here feels incredibly sweltering. Do you miss it?"

Therion smiled thoughtfully.

"Though I _would_ be adversed to returning there during the winter, I've found I do miss some aspects of Skyrim, which I never expected possible, given my earliest experiences there. Although, I must admit, I don't think I'll miss it as much as I could," he said, stealing a kiss, before leaning in close and staring deep into Farengar's eyes.

A broad smile crossed Therion's face.

"After all, I brought the best part of Skyrim back with me."

* * *

_Oblaan -_ The End

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story was a year long labor of love. When I started, I had a very vague idea of how to write and had never started and finished anything full-length. Or even half-length. This is my first complete story, and it holds a very special place in my heart.
> 
> I learned countless things writing this and I feel like I came into my own as a writer in the process.
> 
> When I started, I wanted to be as talented as two particular fanfiction writers who both inspired Fire and Potions (links to their works below). The stories I read about the Altmer Dragonborn, Calmerion, lead me to Therion. As evidenced by his name. The idea of an Altmer Dragonborn was too enticing, and the quality of Calmerion's stories left me eagerly bouncing up and down waiting for more. Their Skyrim fanfictions were the first ones I fell in love with.
> 
> The stories I read about Dyce the Incredibly Easy Breton, lead me to wanting to write Skyrim fanfiction. The storytelling and fascinating characters in Dyce's fanfictions captivated me - there's just so much heart and talent in them.
> 
> Inspired by those two, I set out determined to write something through to the end - to add a story to the wonderful fandom of Skyrim - and I'm very pleased with the result. But more than anything else, I'm floored by everything I learned about writing.
> 
> I discovered there are days when nothing good comes out on the page. When I can't remember how to type a coherent sentence. There were times I nailed it on the first try, and times when I spent over a month rewriting the same chapter, making countless revisions, until I looked at it and loved what I saw. And I think the greatest lesson in that, was realizing that not getting it right the first time doesn't make you any less of a writer. Telling a good story isn't about getting it right and moving on. It's always changing and developing and you can't fault yourself for the journey. Every chapter taught me something new.
> 
> I could not have written this without the amazing editing of my husband, to whom I owe a tremendous amount for teaching, encouraging, and driving sense into me about numerous plot points when I needed it. He kept me true to my characters and was always brutally honest about the quality of my writing in exactly the way I needed, forcing me to grow and challenge myself. I wish that everyone had such an amazing editor, friend, lover, and hilarious, crafty smart ass in their life. He is priceless.
> 
> My sincerest thanks for reading.
> 
> Check these guys out:
> 
> [ Calmerion ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/134994)
> 
> [ Dyce](http://archiveofourown.org/series/29749)


	24. Crystal and Ice

I said I would hold off on writing a sequel. That I would wait at least a year.

Apparently, I lied.

Ideas for Crystal and Ice have been hounding me non-stop since before I even finished writing Fire and Potions.

The first chapter practically wrote itself, so I gave in and put it all down on paper. Electronically speaking.

I will write more as I find the time, but I highly expect that to be very rare the way work is going (Curse you, day job! Getting in the way of important fanfiction endeavors). So, I apologize in advance, but there will be long gaps between chapters. Even by my standards. Anyone who endured the cliff hangars of Fire and Potions, you know what I'm talking about. (Oh, sorry about that, by the way. I'm sure someone out there was tempted to kill me - to them I say, don't worry, as I am surely going to hell in any case, for some of those craftier cliff hangars!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to check out the sequel, you can find it here.
> 
> Thank you, and please enjoy.
> 
> ~M


End file.
